JERICHO ● SEPTEMBER 2025 EVENT/TDM

[uruz]

TDM & EVENT: JERICHO

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Prologue: New Characters

You've been plagued with a reoccuring dream, as of late. Every time you sleep, the dream returns to you.

It always begins the same way: As a breath held for too long. As a pressure at the base of your spine. A silence that presses against the skin like confession, like prophecy. A ripple moves through your bones. A tide builds and pulls at your feet, familiar by now. You dream of a black, soundless wave, thick like oil and starlight, swelling across the horizon line. You've seen the wave before, countless times, always rising. With every night, it never reaches you. You always seem to wake before it does . . . That is, until tonight.

The wave moves slow, deliberate— like something ancient and alive. And when it finally crashes, there is no harsh impact. Only warmth. Only submersion. Rather than drowning, you are being claimed with saltwater that's sweet with myrrh. The darkness embracing you pulses with desire. Then, a voice envelops you.

"Come home."
It dribbles with honey-like promise, like a truth you've always known, whispered now from within your marrow more like temptation than a request.

"You are mine. You always were."
The voice offers purpose. Worship. Belonging. And when you wake . . . You wake changed, with a mask on your face you did not choose. Elegant. Sacred. Too important to remove. You have been given a gift. A new beginning.

Welcome home, new Vessels.

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Sink Down Like Precious Stones

( content warnings: drowning, body horror )

Vessels awaken within the dreamscape as the black wave recedes from their skin like velvet falling off the bone, their masks in place over their eyes and left afloat in the watery expanse. All around them, the ocean stretches infinite and lightless— so still it mirrors the sky above, indistinguishable from the void. Far in the distance, massive obsidian walls curve inward, enclosing this vast seascape like a forgotten temple basin. And there, at the far horizon, one glow pierces the dark: a low-burning fire flickering within a half-sunken structure of impossible architecture— arched, ribbed, as though built from marble and cathedral glass.

This is a test, and it begins with belief.

Those with unwavering faith— whether in Sleep, another god, or even themselves— will find the surface beneath their feet holds firm. The sea becomes glass, and they may rise, and walk. But those adrift in doubt begin to sink. Precious stone creeps over their skin. Joints stiffen. Flesh cracks. Breath slows. It is not death, but it is close and might as well be hell. Your only salvation lies in your own conviction . . . Or the mercy of another Vessel who happens to walk.

Those who drown will not die. They will loop this moment— sinking, blackness, return, sink again— until belief takes root in some way. Alternatively, they may awaken in a later dreamspace . . . Changed.

NOTES:

• Pale white fish as well as glowing jellyfish may be encounted. The fish stare at vessels as they drown, and jellyfish may leave behind a shock that could temporarily stop the process of crystalization. But only temporarily— and their stings are excrutiating.

TOKEN EFFECTS:

• Magic becomes volatile— spells flicker, overcharge, or fizzle unpredictably when cast on or near the ocean.
• When you cast, your veins glow from beneath the skin, but not with light. It's writhing. Like something trapped under glass.
• When channeling magic, your mouth may fill with brine and blood.

OFFERING EFFECTS:

• The water responds emotionally— thrashing with fury or calming with yearning depending on the Offering's state of mind.
• The sea amplifies desire and instinct, making base emotions harder to suppress— rage, hunger, longing all churn just beneath the surface.
• The black water feels too warm, too alive, clinging to the body like memory; any stillness invites visions of Sleep's embrace, both reverent and consuming.

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You Taste Like New Flesh

( content warnings: body horror, psychological horror, compulsion, unreliable reality )

The ocean path ends at a palace carved of pearl and spun silk, impossibly perched where water meets nothingness. Whether you have traversed the black sea on trembling feet or simply awaken seated at an impossibly long table, it makes no difference. You are here now, and welcomed, suddenly in attire fit for a gala. Around this table sit countless Dream-Vessels, many silent and still, faces unreadable in the flickering candlelight wearing generic, six-eyed masks. The table stretches beyond sight, arching beneath creeping vines that twist like ancient veins overhead, blooming with strange blossoms that beat with energy. Flames dance atop dozens of candles— some burn on brass holders, others hover, like fireflies caught mid-flight, their shadows flickering and shifting with an otherworldly rhythm. Around you, phantasmal forms shimmer on pedestals: Sleep's ancient Guardians are eternalized through memorial, monstrous and magnificent, lost to time yet enshrined in reverence. On the highest pedestal stands a still living One, silent and watching the feast with somber eyes. Sleep's voice whispers in your ear, encouraging a glance to, perhaps, see what you may become.

"Feast, My Dear Vessels. Until you taste like New Flesh."

The foods before you don not come unmeddled with. Each bite pulls memories from your bones to the surface— moments buried or erased, but these are not just yours. The banquet feeds on shared history, stirring secrets tangled between you and the others here. To eat is to open a door: to risk awakening something dormant, to invite others inside your buried truths, to forge bonds or betrayals that can never be unseen.

Eton Mess: Crushed meringue, tangled cream, and berries that bleed like bruises when bitten. Sweetness melts quickly, leaving your tongue cold. As you eat, a memory rises— but you don't experience it alone. The person nearest you sees what you see, hears what you hear, feels what you felt. Together, you can alter one key detail, and that change ripples outward, shifting how you both remember the event.

Deviled Kidneys: Spiced and seared, the metallic richness clings to your mouth, as if tasting old blood. Eating summons the echo of a painful or violent memory, but your partner experiences it with you.

Roasted Lamb in Mint Sauce: The sweetness of the meat is cut by mint sharp enough to sting the throat. Your act of consumption awakens a craving, but not in you— in the Vessel sharing this dish. They feel an inexorable pull toward your memory, even without knowing what they seek. The bond persists until the craving is confronted.

Honey Scouse: A thick, golden stew heavy with warmth, but beneath the sweetness, something cloying curls around the edges. Every shared spoonful spreads a slow, creeping influence between you and your partner: intrusive visions, subtle compulsions, small lapses in agency. Neither of you can tell whose thoughts belong to whom.

Starpit Fruit: Plum-sized and faintly glowing, the juice leaves your fingertips dusted in silver, like handling starlight. When bitten, the fruit releases the memory of a forgotten wish, not to you but to the person beside you. They see it clearly— and know exactly what you once wanted most, even if you had buried it.

Marigold Brandy: A golden spirit served warm, glowing faintly as though sunlight has been trapped inside the glass. When lifted, it releases a soft, floral scent. The first sip draws you and your partner into a shared burst of joy— a memory that makes you swell with happiness. The sensation is so immediate, so electric, that when the memory breaks, your bodies ache to move, to speak, to draw more positivity to light. You may feel an irresistible pull to get up and dance on the wide palace floors, even if no music is playing . . . And if others nearby drink as well, the effect multiplies.

Saints Breath Chalice: A dark, wine-thick cordial served in tarnished silver cups etched with symbols that shift when stared at too long. The liquid smells faintly of frankincense and something sweeter— blood-warm and alive. Drinking it floods you and your partner with the overwhelming sensation of being inside someone else's celebration, a memory that belongs to neither of you: a vast mass of black, with branching antlers and six, glowing red eyes. It reaches to sink its claws into your chest as she sings: One. Beloved. We were meant to be. It is impossible to tell whether you're witnessing joy or manic worship. There is chanting you cannot understand but somehow already know, drums that sync with your heartbeat until you can feel nothing else. Your limbs begin to twitch, then sway, then move without conscious thought, drawn into a dance you do not remember learning. If more than two people drink, your movements synchronize perfectly, your breath matching theirs, until the room seems stop to watch.

The table awaits.

NOTES:

• Feasting becomes addictive. The more a character eats, the harder it is to stop. Gluttony may cause physical consequences: nosebleeds, twitching fingers, warping speech, uncontrollable confessions, or dripping nectar from their mouths.
• Those who refuse to eat at all begin to starve in a dream-sense: they lose color, smell burning, and feel the weight of Sleep's gaze. Her wrath isn't immediate— but it grows the longer you reject the feast. She takes offense.

TOKEN EFFECTS:

• Each spell cast after eating releases parasitic energy— manifesting as flowers, thorns, parasitic insects or rot— either from their own body or from someone they recently touched.
• Casting warps your limbs temporarily: too many joints, fingers curl the wrong way, nerves burn like wires.
• Touching others leaves sigils burned into their skin. These will briefly carry over into the waking world during next month's event. Runecasters will get the innate feeling that this symbol has a meaning summed up as "The Night Does Not Belong To God". How they interpret that is up to them.

OFFERING EFFECTS:

• The act of devouring awakens an overwhelming desire, often physical, but sometimes emotional or spiritual. This desire clings to another Vessel at the table, creating obsessive attachment or aggression.
• The more they eat, the more their monstrous traits subtly emerge.
• Consuming another Vessel's memory (if shared or touched) grants a brief glimpse of their deepest fear or weakness.

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There's Something In The Way You Lay

( content warnings: sexual content, voyeurism, body modification, omegaverse traits, loss of agency )

Beneath its pearlescent halls, beyond the banquet of flickering candles and dream-Vessels who eat in hollow silence, a spiral staircase winds downward. Its steps are damp and velvet-slick. The further you descend, the warmer the air becomes— humid, cloying, thick with the scent of sweat, salt, and incense. The sounds reach you first: Slaps, gasps, the wet chorus of bodies and perverse intimacy. Laughter, muffled sobs, the echo of whispered names long forgotten. At the base lies a corridor of "private" rooms. Their doors swing open with dreamlike invitation. Inside, the scenes unfold: past dream-Vessels lost in tableau— arched backs, bitten lips, mouths open in prayer or obedience. Some are alone, coiled in worship. Others tangle in groups, indistinguishable where one body ends and another begins. Vines bloom across the ceilings, watching. The walls glisten with breath. You see their faces, but you can't quite distinguish what or who they are. You may not remember choosing a role, but the dream has chosen for you. α or Ω— and with the naming, your body changes. There is no shame here, only devotion made manifest. This is how Sleep is worshipped now: through cruelty and surrender, through the giving and the taking of flesh.

NOTES

• Masks may optionally offer a sort of glamour for Vessels who wander into these chambers— they will not be able to recognize each other. How much of that, whether it be appearance, voice, and so on, is up to you.
• Past dream-Vessels perform for no one, eyes vacant, movements perfect, as if only a ghost of a memory. Player characters may interact with them and even partake in intimacy with them, but be warned: they are emotionally absent and may cause symptoms of succumbence that could be remedied with a proper, player-character tether.
• Tools hang on the walls: Rods of all sizes, slick with heat. Collars that hum with low, seductive voltage. Blindfolds that intensify physical contact, There's no need for cuffs or chains when there are vines that seem to respond to the α party's mood— tightening, flowering, or reaching for skin. You are free to come up with your own items.
• α perks:: Instinctive claiming (done through biting, rubbing, branding, etc), an almost predatory focus and obsession for those who interest them, pack gravity (the ability to attract one or more vessels at once), emitting a scent that ignites heat/rut in others, darker urges surge and a commanding voice.
Ω perks: High pain tolerance, instinctive yielding, emotional synchrony with those being watched, self-lubricating, hypersensitive, scent tracking, intense need to please or be filled emotionally, physically, and spiritually. When touched, glowing runes bloom across the skin.

TOKEN EFFECTS

• Spells cast during acts of intimacy may provoke a heightened sensation of euphoria for both caster and whoever is affected by the spell.
• Magic may manifest as misty appendages— extra hands, tongues, eyes, etc.
• Divine energy becomes volatile when passed through the body— ecstasy may border on agony, or vice versa, and Tethering becomes impossibly euphoric.

OFFERING EFFECTS

• Flesh becomes malleable mid-act— bones bending, jaws unhinging, skin blooming open, etc.
• Animalistic traits emerge: tails, claws, growls, tentacles, scent glands— all begging to be used.
• Feeding and Tethering are indistinguishable— hunger becomes worship, and worship becomes need.

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I am not worthy

( content warnings: body horror, violence, gore, parasitic/invasive feeding, death )

Wherever you are, the palace begins to rot. First slowly, then all at once: vines swell with black fluid, splitting at the seams. They burst from beneath marble tiles, coil up pillars, slither across frames and vacant thrones like arteries choking a heart. The candlelight flickers. One by one, the flames throughout the palace float upward . . . And die. No smoke. No warning. Just wet silence. Then the Dream-Vessels begin to fall. They do not scream as they do. They collapse like marionettes, limbs askew. Their flesh splits open along wounds that should not exist— a rip at the neck, teeth marks prying open the ribcage, a bite that swallows half a torso. Bones jut like sculpted ivory. Entrails slither across the floor like garlands. Some burst mid-air, as if the dream demands spectacle. Others fold in on themselves until all that's left of them is a mound of flesh.

"I am not worthy."

One voice. Ten. A thousand—layered, glitching, sweaty. It echoes from the walls, the bodies, the seams in the floor. The corpses twitch in time with the chant, jerking violently. Some snap backwards, eyes wide, jaws unhinged. Others explode— blossoming in gore, raining viscera. From the heaving pile of ruined Dream-Vessels, something forms.

It lurches into being: stitched from tongues, teeth, torsos. Weeping. Wailing. Worshipping. A monstrosity of raw flesh and faith: all failures made meat. Its eyes (are they eyes?) blink out. Arms claw outwards, too many to count. Its scent is of copper, sweat, and sorrow.

When The Abomination chooses to feed, it seeks not flesh, but the softest rot inside you. An appendage uncoils from its writhing mass and unhinged jaw— veined, slick, and trembling like a violated root. It drives itself into your mouth, splitting your lips with obscene tenderness, and sinks deep into your throat, locking you still.

What it draws out is not blood. It siphons your doubts, your fears, your most secret self-hatred. Your inadequacy. Every buried shame. Your hate. Your negativity. Every flinch of unworthiness. Every moment you believed yourself unlovable, unseen, too small. It gorges on what you hide from even yourself, and the more you try to resist, the sweeter your sorrow becomes. The last thing it takes is your life force, and then your viscera, leaving you wilted and shrivled like a hollow log.

This death is violating and feels painfully slow. You're drained raw of your vitality until you're but a brittle husk that breaks to dust in the wind. It seems near impossible to destroy, always reforming into bits and pieces left smudged behind. Perhaps your best bet it to run, or attempt to wake yourself up from this nightmare.

One's voice repeats in choked sobs: I am not worthy.

NOTES:

• Wounds from the beast linger. You may wake bleeding or marked.
• If devoured, characters will awaken the following month extremely fatigued during the first 3-5 days of the month. They may also sporadically rigurgitate black sludge. Characters who die and are already in the game may requesta plot clue, that will be a vision your character will dream of before awakening.

TOKEN EFFECTS

• Magic recoils violently when used on The Abomination, backfiring with psychic screams or ripping into your flesh.
• Your hands glow uncontrollably, burning what you touch— even those you love.
• Magic becomes hungry; it demands pieces of your body to function. A tooth. A nail. A rib (and so on).

OFFERING EFFECTS

• The rage it stirs in you is monstrous. You begin to shift uncontrollably— flesh blooms, bones crack under strain.
• Your body begins moving before you decide to. Twitching toward The Abomination, and toward the scent of despair.
• During the chaos, you may develop a fixation with another Vessel's flaw. You can smell it on them. It entrances you . . . To the point that you may feel the urge to feed them to The Abomination.

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OOC NOTES

➤ Welcome to Somnia's second TDM, which doubles as our third gamewide event!

➤ This TDM is considered game canon. You are free to have your character remember as many details as possible.

➤ Only new characters are free to experiment with the Vessel options to your liking; this is a dreamscape, so multiple/different situations for you to really test which option you like most is possible. Current characters must remain as their chosen Vessel type unless you requested a switch, which can be done on the Taken page.

➤ All TDMs take place within a dreamscape, meaning characters can interact with the setting without needing to apply. Come have fun with us!

➤ Veteran players, I ask to please refrain from making post-event threads for the time being! We have some important information to take into account in next month's event when characters are slated to "wake up". At the very least, please wait for the information to be offered on the next plotting post. Thank you everyone for your patience!

➤ Please comment on the TDM's INVITE TL if you are a new player interested in joining the game, but don't yet have an invite. Current players or the mod may reach out to extend an invite. Once you've got one, please don't forget to comment on the Invite page so you may properly link it in your reserve and app.

➤ Questions? Please direct them to the designated questions comment linked below!

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yun ruhong | original character (dnd)

[hongtian]

( i. sink down like precious stones )

[ Ruhong awakens on her knees in the middle of the vast ocean.

Once she was trapped, just like this, in an endless void of white nothing, with no walls to scale nor breach and nothing on which to vent her anger. This place, despite its vast emptiness, is not that, for it is not nothing. Draped in nothing but a single white robe, Ruhong rises to her feet from where she is kneeling above the seemingly-solid water and looks across the obsidian walls to the low-burning, distant fire.

She stumbles forward, her breath catching in her throat, and whispers: ] Il-Yannah. Dàguāng. I know not where I am nor have been in this darkness, but I beg you, light the path for me and I will light it for those behind.

[ And so she walks, her feet finding solid purchase across the waves; and below, perhaps, she sees struggle, if you feel it. ]

( ii. you taste like new flesh )

[ Here is the problem: Ruhong, who was raised in an ascetic lifestyle and taught that she must let go of earthly desires and attachments, who has strictly cultivated her self control, already struggles with the indulgence of fine things.

Now she finds herself dressed in the too-thin layers of a white, red, and gold ruqun, the huadian on her forehead above the ruby-scaled mask now decorated with ruby and pearl and her hair half-tied back and crowned with a delicate guan. She eats delicately too, the long sleeves of her left arm hiding her face as she bites and sips, her red eyes shimmering in the firelight. She tried, is the thing. She really tried not to eat. But the compulsion and hunger overwhelmed her until she thought first just a bite, and then another, and then...

She eats it all. Of the Eton Mess, perhaps, a neighbor at the table may see a dark castle surrounded by scores of undead, of friends that fall one by one before them. The Deviled Kidney might share visions of Ruhong dying, over and over again, each more violent than the last (stabbed; drowned in boiling water; thrown from a cliffside; ripped apart as a last stand for the people in the keep beneath her; her own body hanging, hundreds of copies over, swinging before her as she storms into the Death Knight's Keep). The Starpit Fruit, a horrible wish to be golden. Or other memories, perhaps; until Ruhong drinks the Marigold Brandy and feels power, feels the euphoria of physical release, feels an unstoppable urge to dance. She gets to her feet. ]

Well? Are you joining?

( iii. something in the way )

[ Ruhong has stopped on her descent down the spiral staircase: one hand against the wall, doubled over, a hand on her forehead as she struggles and fails to keep her head from swimming. It is pulling her, drawing her; she knows what is happening below and is fighting it as hard as she can.

If you pass her on the staircase, going either up or down, she will try to grab you by the clothes on your body (if you are wearing them—or by an arm, or a shoulder, if not)—and either shove you against the wall or pull you against herself, whichever way you feel yourself leaning. She is wearing her ruby mask, and despite the fact that her white hair and clothes are fairly recognizable, something about this mask obscures the sense of who exactly she is. ]

Stop. [ Her voice is hoarse and rough. ] Don't.

( iv. wildcard )

(( ooc: feel free to hit me up at aerolith or discord @ jinlian! ))

you taste like new flesh

[deathstealer]

[ Of the food, Ranni cannot partake. Or rather, she can -- here in the dream, her mouth and hands can move once more, magic easing the porcelain into fluidity -- but it would be wasted on her, as the food would merely fall into her metal chest cavity and rot there.

Still, she sits nonetheless, a keen gaze observing those around her. Bereft of her usual shapeless dress and robes, she is in a pale grey dress the shade of a dim moon, its chest piece little more than mesh revealing the broken porcelain of her chest and joints, iron and brass underlay showing beneath. So, too, she is without her hat, and she feels very naked without it.

When the memories come as she sits next to Ruhong, Ranni expects them. Similar magical effects had happened with the fruit from the orchard of the first dream, and so, she is already bracing herself. She both knows Ruhong and does not know her at all, a fascinating dichotomy brought about by a tether between two guarded people. Visions flow past her mind's eye of hundreds of deaths; impalement and burning, dismemberment and suffocation. For a person to die and come back is no unusual thing for Ranni, but she had not expected it of Ruhong. In a way, it is a strange comfort. Does that mean Ruhong cannot die, and this tether of theirs can never be severed and left cold?

As the vision fades, Ranni curls her fingers around Ruhong's. Her touch is as cold as the chill of the moon, her magic infusing her form once more. Her gaze is impassive as usual, but she doesn't hold just anybody's hand for no reason. ]

Thou'rt stronger than even I knew.
Art thou deathless, or otherwise blessed with life?
Those Who Walk in Death are a common sight in my lands;
I had hardly expected to encounter the same here.

[hongtian]

[ Reliving it is no less unpleasant than the first time around. The taste of blood is one thing, both that of the food in her mouth and the flavor of her own deaths in the memory. Ruhong has often tasted, even craved it in her most feral, wild, and violent moments. But not even Hongtian stirs in anticipation at this. With the taste of blood comes the memory of pain and helplessness and loss, and while Ruhong could tolerate the first on its own, the rest together is nearly unbearable.

For once, she does not jerk back from the surprise of someone else's touch. Ranni's hand is cold, but it soothes the blazing heat of Ruhong's skin as the tether between them finds equilibrium. Ruhong grips back, white-knuckled and hard as she meets Ranni's gaze unblinking. ]

Not quite either. [ She waits to speak until she is certain that her voice will be smooth and clear, though she fights with it to make it so. ] And both as well. I have been reborn in more ways than one, and I have brought men back to life with a single spell.

[ She is deathless as far as she believes: while the mortal shell of Ruhong may one day die (if, of course, she cannot cultivate enough energy within her core to grant her immortality like the most powerful of sages), her soul will be reborn again, and again, carrying the dreams of the quori inside her into the birth of new kalashtar. And she has called mortal souls back to their living existence with a diamond and a blessing of the light. ]

But that memory was not quite that. [ She grips Ranni's hand more tightly. ] Dragons, you see, have the unique ability of dragonsight: the most powerful and ancient of them can see their own existences in other realities, the lives of selves they might have been. I have learned to harness that ability, but I learned it just in time to see the fates of my other selves.

We were not all meant to exist on the same plane together.

[deathstealer]

[ Ranni's head tilts curiously. ]

Ah, those were not thine own deaths,
but that of alternate selves, and other times?
Most curious;
the dragons of mine own world have not that same sight.

[ What a wondrous ability, to see one's own fate in different realities, should different choices have been made. Truly, it is the kind of magic that might drive a person mad if they looked into the branching paths too long. One could learn to be intolerably paranoid and entirely overly cautious with sight like that.

In her grip, she turns Ruhong's hand over, studying her knuckles, the lengths of her fingers, in the same way a professional might admire a work of art. What she has seen of Ruhong's dress this night is another fascination, a style that Ranni is entirely unfamilair with. ]

Our minds are connected,
and yet I find mineself without the answer to this question:
art thou a dragon in human form?
Thy soul and thy magic are bright enough indeed.

ii; eton mess

[fromfire]

[ What a strange dinner party.

But he supposes it's no more strange than how they came to be in this place. He scratches the side of his chin as he stares at the spread of food that is on his plate. Yet before he is able to take a bite -- his vision shifts to a scene outside of the party taking place.

Instead, he sees a castle surrounded by undead and people he doesn't recognize dying. His postures straightens almost immediately as he attempts to rise to do something! He isn't sure what, but he feels that sense of urgency. His hand snaps out to try to save one but he ends up knocking over a glass instead.

Pulling his hand back, he glances to the young woman next to him. ]

Sorry. Not my finest reaction, but -- [ Verso trails off in confusion. ] -- I thought, no, I saw something else just now. [ That probably sounds insane so he offers a charming smile and adds another: ] Sorry.

[hongtian]

[ It's worse, perhaps, to relive the memory knowing that she could have stopped it—should have, rather—and marching them to their deaths nonetheless. Ruhong is frozen inside the vision, the scores of soldiers falling all around her while her party—first Weasel, then Tenderheart, then Judge, then—are cut down one by one. It's a relief, really, when the shattering of glass snaps her back to reality.

Ruhong is on her feet and reaching for a sword that isn't at her side before she realizes where she is: surrounded by food and secrets, and illuminated by candle light. For a moment, she is just as confused as Verso. The red liquid in the glass slowly seeps into the tablecloth, and Ruhong's fingers twitch with her instinct to Prestidigitate away before she remembers how her magic here has changed. That, finally, brings her fully back.

She sits slowly back down in her chair and turns to him. ]

A common occurrence, it seems, to see things when eating food in this place.

[ She picks up her own glass and raises it to him in acknowledgement. ]

You'll often find you haven't seen it on your own, either. What is it that you saw?

[ She'll let him confirm it before she offers the memory. ]

sink down like precious stones

[hallowedly]

( Prayer, incantantion, a madwoman's murmurs, a pretty songbird choking. He hears the woman at a distance, the tinny click-clack of her steps on the mirror's slender jugular. She walks as if she drags herself, as if her puppemaster could not be troubled to shorten her strings, and lo her limbs hang, her pace stumbles.

He had anticipated she might be his first of those witnessed woken to the privilege of floating above, only to fall back in. And he has shadowed her impassionately, tepidly, steps in quiet cadence.

The sea haze is less fog, more viscous membrane, a thickening and loosening of reality as if the world itself cannot decide where wish and dream and fact begin. He blinks, and he is following her. Blinks again, and he sees nothing but terrible dark. Blinks once more —

And he has nearly stumbled into his prey, the glass paths crinkling as they collide, threatening to shatter only to double down instead. A smile, serpentine. )

Thanks for the light. ( After all, she will light for those behind. )

[hongtian]

[ She has never been the most perceptive of people, and this is particularly true for Ruhong now as she trudges across solid water, trapped by obsidian walls with only the promise of light in the distance as her means out. Precious light, of course; even more precious in this nightmare, this dream where her faith in the Path has never been more important.

So it is that Ruhong does not see the other figure approach until they have collided veritably head-on. A foot catches on the hem of her robe and only throwing a hand out to counterbalance herself against him saves her from losing that footing: a gesture she quickly tries to mask as an offering of steadiness to him in turn, rather than one for herself. ]

My apologies. I did not see you.

[ She holds up a palm, and suddenly the dim light of the fire far away is there in her palm: first as a sputter, then a spark, and then (with a minute narrowing of her brows) a flare before it settles. Beneath her skin, something glows and writhes in her veins, and that—that is different.

Ruhong smooths her expression as best she can of her confusion and looks up at him, her face thrown into sharp relief. ]

In truth, I did not know I was not alone. The light at the horizon is not mine, but if it's light. you need, then I can provide it.

[hallowedly]

( Not a beat skipped, not a moment squandered: she is caught, if not held, with strict efficacy to restore her balance. ) Truly?

( How remarkable. But his smile's all wilting grace and acquired sheepishness, ease borrowed from a friend. There is no time like the present to make an easy acquaintance — or to stop, rooted in the middle of a glass bridge and unveil a crushed assembly of thoroughly drenched cancer sticks.

To think a brief... dip in the ocean's black nethers could so readily expunge their flavor. They don't make lethal vice instruments like they used to. )

I'm afraid my cigarettes are soaked. ( Light and light are better supplied than the rest of Seishirou's arsenal. And so, with a maudlin, gut-punched sigh: )

I suppose this is neither the first, nor the last of our inconveniences here.

( And how might she know? The listlessness of her silhouette suggests it, the lack of nervous tremors. But perhaps she is neither mortal nor sane, a drifting funayurei. Who's to say, in these parts? )

iii. something in the way

[dangerbird]

[Once Joshua is able to pull himself away from the feast he takes to exploring once more. It is odd considering how much he ate as he yet still feels light as a feather, but he supposes that is dream logic for you. The further down the stairs Joshua gets the more the unnerving feeling begins creeping back into him. The feast feels a world away, as if were there a need to run there might not be a place to run to. Still he presses deeper, ever drawn by his curiosity.

That's when, through his mourning veil, Joshua sees the woman attempting to steady herself and immediately worry burns within him. Had she too much to drink? He hurries to her—

Only to get easily manhandled and slammed into the wall. Joshua can feel it against his bare back—but he didn't recall there being a hole in the back of his outfit prior. Joshua's surprised eyes flick down to see his entire top has changed; his bare chest reveals a strange purple formation there—this didn't make any sense to him, but the change must be more of the dream logic. Either way, right now, his clothes are not his priority.

Joshua wonders if he has startled her, perhaps that is why she is pushing him to the wall. His voice is soft yet urgent and filled with concern.]

My lady— are you alright?

[hongtian]

[ She is both too close and not close enough. Ruhong's breath come too quick and hot as she struggles with her answer: her forearm across his bare chest above that strange purple mark, skin to skin blazing as she wrestles against the pull of the magic and warm air below. ]

Yes. I am fine. [ Her response is automatic—and wrong. She changes it. ] No, I am not.

[ The gentleness of his voice had the maddening effect of both pulling her towards him and reminding her that she doesn't like softness, doesn't want to be caught up in something out of her control. Ruhong frowns at herself and grips his arm in a white-knuckled hand as she looks up at him from below. ]

Do you know what is happening at the bottom of those stairs?

i.

[aeviternitas]

[ From the depths, a single hand reaches as though pleading, begging, to be saved. Just once. ...Just, just once.

He knows not how many times he resurfaced only to drift into the depths again, body weighted with stone - crystals, to be precise, encasing his skin in with points like smoke until he feels as though he is made of lead. Again, and again, his lungs scream for air, and the weight of the ocean above him as he sinks farther feels like to crush him, until blessed nothingness steals his senses. At least, until he resurfaces again.

Doubt weighs him, too. Again and again he is subject to fate not of his own choosing, the plaything of gods with more power than he. Perhaps, if he is still, if he accepts it instead of struggling, the darkness will claim him once and for all. ]

[hongtian]

[ There, in the dim light of her lonely pilgrimage across the glassy waters, Ruhong sees a hand.

It's the only sign of other life to be seen from end to end of the obsidian walls, and she rushes forward. The tiny flame cupped in her palm flickers and dies with her movement, and she lets it go: the far-away glow on the horizon now the only source, but still serving its guiding purpose as she strays from her path. There is no time to be lost in the symbolism of this (for Ruhong often strays from the light, but it's the promise that it will yet guide her back that keeps her steady in the darkness). She lurches forward as the hand threatens to slip below the waves, still solid and glassy beneath her feet but somehow still fluid around the figure that threatens to slip beneath it.

She curls a hand around his and tugs with all her might. ]

Kick. [ Her voice is commanding. It matters not if they listen; it only matters that she speaks with conviction. ] Give me your other hand!

ii.

[vixenish]

[ this deviled kidney is truly awful.

not the dish itself, necessarily. the taste is horribly sublime; it is somehow both delicious and utterly disgusting.

blood.

she is sick of the taste of blood.

one would think the visions of those horrific memories might be worse. but Lortel eats calmly, politely, as if nothing at all is the matter.

as she eats, Ruhong will experience her memories in turn: viciously beaten for stealing a piece of fruit. biting off a man's finger to keep him from—well. a brutally hard and stinging slap from a tall, imposing, richly dressed man whose face is in shadow. it's heavy enough to send your small body spinning to the ground. you can feel the imprints of his many rings on your stinging, red cheek.

gently, Lortel sets down her fork. ]

... it's terribly unfair.

[hongtian]

[ While Lortel is sick of the taste of blood, Ruhong finds it growing only sweeter as she eats. She has always been... tolerant of the taste, for the part of her soul that craves victory as much as it craves meat. But even Ruhong finds the taste soured by the visions, for they are the antithesis of everything the wyrm inside her wishes to be: powerful, proud, and unbroken.

She, too, puts down her utensils and for a moment simply sits, white-knuckled, with the struggle to control her anger on behalf of the girl who was beaten. Only when Lortel speaks does Ruhong let out her breath and turn her way. ]

That it happened? That you're forced to relive it? Or both, and you've no say in who gets to see it?

new flesh (part 4, marigold brandy.)

[gnostalgia]

[ roxy doesn't drink, but that doesn't mean she can't feel the effects. it bubbles in her mind, making her blood sing with the music all around them. she grinning to herself — like a secret, a private joke — casting her eye around the room as though seeking a means to join in when she hears ruhong's voice cut through the din.

for a brief moment, it's like roxy can't process it, eyebrows raising behind her catmask; surprise parts her lips. then, just as quickly, she gathers up the bright pink skirts of her dress in one hand and reaches for ruhong's with her other. ]

Fuck yes!

[ oh, but— ]

I never danced before, that okay?

[hongtian]

[ On another day, perhaps, Roxy's enthusiasm might have started Ruhong, but today she's just as caught up in it. With her free hand, Ruhong raises the billowing sleeves of her outer robe to cover her laughter; with the other, she tugs Roxy further onto the wide palace floors. ]

Don't worry. Neither have I.

[ It's not wholly the truth, but it's close enough to truth that it hardly matters. She had a two-week crash-course in foreign decorum that culminated in a ball, where she technically "danced" (led by one partner or another) but mostly floated from conversation to conversation. Now Ruhong feels the urge to move, to pull this stranger into this moment of joy that Ruhong has not felt in weeks.

She attempts to twirl her partner, awkwardly, in the way she remembers seeing the gentlemen of Kalaman do. ]

Unless you'd count a sword dance, perhaps?

ii / cw allusions to internalized fatphobia, bulimia, mentions of purge + US intervention in iraq

[faa]

Ruhong.

[ Freddie doesn’t know, exactly, why he’s surprised to see her when she stops him as he’s leaving a conversation—but he’s glad that he is, because he hadn’t seen here at the table during the ordeal a few hours earlier, which means that she didn’t see him—didn’t witness him stuffing his face exactly like everyone in this room would expect someone who looks like him to do. She didn’t witness the ooze of memories that seeped through his fingers as he tried frantically to stop the hemorrhage from new cracks in his mental dam. She’s seen him fly, she’s seen what the rolling scrub of Iraqi Kurdistan looks like from 32,000 feet—but she still hasn’t seen what its population centers look like torn to shreds by the ordinance he and his crew carried like Toki just did.

He prefers it that way.

Instead Ruhong sees him at his best again, after the calm of renewed emptiness has already washed over him, his mouth rinsed clean, his heartbeat back to its normal pace. Freddie no longer feels like a cornered animal, and hasn’t for at least an hour—he feels like a man in his element again, wearing the proverbial mask of the debonair airline captain as easily as she wears her ruby-scaled one—an allusion, he now knows, to the wings she glided on in her memories, when she’d taken him swooping over the ocean, feeling the cold salty mist in his face and his lungs. His own is feathered, the same green as his pocket square, with a similar satin sheen—this one provided naturally by the shafts of the fine feathering.

There’s a similar feeling of awe and wonder now, this time at manmade beauty, not the natural world. Her dress—he doesn’t know the correct word for it, but he’s sure there is one—doesn’t craft her into the body the Western dresses he’s used to seeing do; if anything, it obscures her figure in its boxy shape and light, billowing folds. It’s shaped more like one of the dresses in a Jane Austen work (of course he’s seen Pride and Prejudice, he was born in 1992), but decidedly more elegant, its shape lighter and more flowing. The effect, combined with her stark white hair and long body—so tall she’s almost on eye-level with him—and the artistry of the delicate ornamentation she wears, borders on ethereal.

He’s dressed more simply, albeit in something that still flatters: a black tuxedo and black patent leather shoes, ornamented with a dark emerald velvet bowtie and a satin pocket square of the same shade. It’s a daring gambit on Sleep’s part, he’d thought, the mix of three different fabrics, but it had paid off when he regarded himself in the mirror. The tuxedo seems to have been professionally tailored to his body, and the touches of green emphasize the blue of his eyes, the golden undertones to his dishwater blond hair. She had given it all of the attention of a tailor making a suit to order on Fifth Avenue—and he’s grateful. He’s comfortable now, as though nothing happened earlier at all—though he has to wonder if she’ll find his own unfamiliar attire just as oddly modest. ]

I’d like that. You look beautiful.

[hongtian]

[ She turns at the sound of her name, spoken in a voice just as familiar to her as his attire isn't. Formal dress differs for men all across Bataan as much as it differs across continents, or even worlds, for she's seen enough of those as well. But this is still new to her, the cut of his dark clothing accented by the green at his neck and chest and the feathers of his mask. It's not that it's modest, exactly (though she's well acquainted with men who prefer a plunging neckline); the men of the great cultivation clans perhaps wear too many layers of their finely woven cottons and silks no matter the weather. It's just... different. Just like everything here.

But different isn't bad, and Ruhong takes her time examining him, taking in the full effect of his clothing and the mask she's had yet to see nestled over his face. There's no mistaking Freddie, though. There's a familiar warmth in the tether between them, and Ruhong raises her eyes to his and smiles. ]

Not a bad look, yourself.

[ Accepting a compliment is an easy thing for her: natural, for of course she is beautiful. Giving compliments is often less so for Ruhong (and sometimes she doesn't even mean them), but she is genuine with this one. He looks good, and she feels good, her body still bubbling with the liquor's euphoria. And in an even less natural gesture—but just as genuine as the rest—Ruhong reaches out a hand. ]

I'm afraid I'm rather unpracticed, however. I've only done this a few short times before, and I'm sure I don't know the dances you do.

iii

[obsidien]

[Being grabbed by the arm is not an occurrence that Sidurgu is familiar with, especially given his height and general appearance. Even with the frown on his face being obscured by his mask, people tend to scurry away from just looking at his silhouette.

Not this woman, however, and Sidurgu has to look down first instead of simply shrugging her hand off, curious as to who would be brave enough.]

Don't what?

[hongtian]

[ Her fingers tighten on his arm when he doesn't immediately shrug her off, and Ruhong studies this stranger as best she can, at least, beneath their masks and the glamours of the dream that holds them. He is white-haired and fair-skinned just as she is, from what she can tell; but the scales that decorate her face belong to a mask rather than her flesh.

She grits her teeth. ]

Go further. Not unless you know what is happening below and you wish to be part of it—consumed in ecstasy.

ii.

[guidingbookworm]

[Sirius on the other hand was raised the indulgent lifestyle of a noble. The elegant black suit and starry cape he wore suited him. He had since left that life behind but the past still weighed heavily on his soul and he easily slipped back into his old role. He couldn't insult their host no matter how suspicious the food was. His glowing silver eyes flickered with a startled spark when biting into the starpit fruit filled his mind with a strange wish to be golden that didn't belong to him.

Unknown to him Ruhong was also given a memory. Sirius leaning back against someone who was hidden in the shadows. With a deep sigh he turned to look at the night sky, his glowing silver eyes softly burning brighter with his regret.]

I wish the goddess had chosen someone else. I would lose all of you if I wasn't a mage but maybe someone stronger would have been able to stop my father from destroying Althiya. I wouldn't mind sacrificing my happiness if it saved everyone.

[hongtian]

[ The jealousy, the frustration of Ruhong's childhood memories seep through the sharp tang of the fruit: her golden-eyed grandmother, the long-respected leader of their clan, taking her golden-eyed brother and sister under her wing as the oldest and youngest of Ruhong's siblings take quickly and easily to their teachings. Prodigies: their morals clear with the metallic clarity of their souls, while Ruhong's hands bloom with blisters, bitterness and sweat, the frustration of trying to find clarity in her path and power that would have been so much clearer had her soul been like theirs instead.

Her deepest, oldest shame.

But gold becomes silver, and light becomes the darkness of the sky, sprinkled with stardust like the juice of the fruit left dusting Ruhong's fingertips. The wish becomes different: not to be chosen. That power be granted elsewhere. The contradiction swirls inside her head, dizzying her for a moment, until the vision fades—and Ruhong looks down at her silver-tipped hand before turning to the figure across from her. ]

Do you still wish it?

New Flesh: Eton Mess

[sculptedash]

[Ash sees the flash of the darkened castle. Of the scores of undead and she manages to catch sight of Ruhong in the crowd of the living. It makes it easier for her to spot her through her black blindfold on the other side of the table.]

Yo, Dude.

You should have said you fought zombies before- That's so metal.

Shame about the other people getting ripped apart though.

[hongtian]

[ Ruhong needs a moment to compose herself from the memory, and her eyes flash burning red across the table at this stranger's remarks. Shame, she thinks drily.

She carefully cleans her hands on a napkin while debating her response, though not once does she break eye contact. The scowl she'll work on fixing before she speaks. ]

Yes. Well, I knew what awaited most of them. [ The admission is bitter in her throat. ] But it went even worse than I'd expected.