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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Comments

dirk strider 🔶 homestuck 🔶 new player

[gavehead]

1. YOU TASTE LIKE NEW FLESH. ( cw: decapitation, suicide, self deprecation themes. )

<sub>[ Having a surreal dream such as this is no foreign concept to Dirk, but he thought by now he would be done with all of this horseshit. Dreamselves, dreamwalkers; a vast world awaiting on the other side while he juggled the art of being both awake and asleep at the same time. What otherworldly desire could be beckoning him now? Whatever it is, it draws him in helplessly like a moth to a flame... or a seagull to a french fry in this case.

Not only does he have a pair of sickass wings, fluffy feathers peppering down his neck and across the top of his chest, but he finds his arms are talons, albeit more hawk-like than anything, but the small amount of webbing at the bottom between each finger surely indicates some water fowl of sorts.

Either way, he finds himself with a mask and formal attire. Might as well call him a pegasus at this rate. This is some weirdass dream alright.

He can't bitch and moan too much, though. The prospect of being fed is alluring enough for anyone who spent most of their life eating freshly caught fish and hydrating with orange soda. So, now, he's seated at this grand table and served deviled kidneys, to which he can't help but lean into the person next to him and ask: ]</sub>

Think they got ketchup here?

_{[ Every Texan loves their ketchup on things, post-apocalyptic timeline or not. ]}

2. THE WAY YOU LAY. omega option -- ( cw: dubcon, potential nsfw )

_{[ A. As someone of a refined artist of smutty taste, the sounds do pique his interest in some kind of disturbing way he can't fully grasp. Maybe it's cause he grew up in an era where having sex the old fashioned was just wasn't a thing. Not to say he was naive about the matter, oh no, but, beneath that stone cold exterior there may be an ounce of innocence; inexperience, awkwardness that he kept concealed under a chill and intelligent facade. Though, the air feels thick the more he explores and.. dear god, was it getting hot in here? Somehow, it's like he knows what is going on because of what he suddenly wants, and no, this isn't his typical, touch-starved and unloved kind of desire that has pitted his stomach achingly many times before. This is, something else, and Dirk can tell he hates it already because, well.. he hates not being in control. He's already caught onto a scent he seems to be emitting, alluring to any potential mate.. though it might smell a bit like.. oranges to any alpha. Maybe he wants to be chased, maybe that's part of the game he wants to play, but the second any alpha makes their appearance, he feels a bead a sweat trickle down his forehead. ]}

Oh, hell no.

<sub>[ Better run after him quickly. He's fast.

B. Or perhaps it isn't an alpha. Perhaps it's another omega or someone just passing through. If that's the case, he'll stay calm. ]</sub>

So, uh, you wanna figure out how to get the fuck outta here or what?

3. I AM NOT WORTHY.

_{[ If this creature is hungry for negativity, lack of self worth, those sort of things.. it definitely picked the right sad son of a bitch to feed on. Dirk is probably a goddamn all you can eat buffet with how much self loathing is within his heart, and by the time someone has come across him, it's all but too late. Perhaps he allowed it to happen; perhaps he didn't care. Maybe there used to be some strife left in him, but now it's faded. Either way, the creature has him, bound by vines and drinking the energy from his throat, mouth split wide. Surely, it was too late. He wasn't even putting up a fight. Do you risk freeing him? If it is too late, does that mean he'll come for you next? ]}

OOC.

_{[ hello i am ashu and this is the year 2012. dirk has some permissions you may want to look at. for 2, i am open to any character discovering him and taking the situation to a general route, but if y'all wanna get nasty let's keep it m/m only. i am playing dirk post-canon but before the credits, he's about 18 years old. he is an offering (valkyerie.) ]}

three; you are worthy. (cw: mild hand gore)

[gnostalgia]

[ when things get tough, the lalonde gets — well, running for cover, historically. even now roxy wants the most to just duck under the monstrosities and wait out the worst of the horrors passing by. this is far beyond the skellies in the medium or even the drones the batterwitch sent to earth. she doesn't know how to deal with these horrorterrors, so she seeks to keep her profile low, take advantage of the cover the void gives her.

—but roxy sees him and there's a draw. something behind her heart tugs and drags and pulls her to him. all drawn up in vines and covered in feathers, roxy doesn't recognize dirk right away. not until she takes another few stumbling steps forward, and her shining eyes catch his face. ]

...Dirk?

[ the closer she stumbles the more her body splits; thick claws and pawpads replace her hands with the crunch and snap of bone. lilac and pink ears flatten to her skull as roxy bounds forward, feeling her teeth sharpen in a snarl. ]

Dirk!

[ bounding forward — is it the dream, or is it her fistkind imbuing her with this strength? does it matter? — roxy splays her claws and rips through the fleshy vines, trying to loosen its hold on her best friend. ]

cw: body horror

[gavehead]

<sub>[ Out of all the ways to go, Dirk always seemed to take, what he thought to be a cowardly way out. Decapitation was quick and otherwise painless, and even if each time it happened, it has a very carefully thought out scheme, but never in his wildest mind did he think he would die this way.

It's painstakingly slow, the way each limb climbs into orifices of his body, primarily his mouth and feeding off of his hatred like a starved leech. Somewhere, he can vaguely hear Roxy's voice, but it's drowned out by another.

He's not worthy.

Just as he is not worthy to die next to Roxy, he definitely isn't worthy to be rescued by her. Still, a carnage of vines fly behind her, along with a mix of blood and feathers, tattered cloth from his fancy attire. He's breathing, but otherwise, unresponsive. Keep trying to free him? ]</sub>

cw: gore and likely the body horror to continue.

[gnostalgia]

No you fucking don't!

[ she punctuates her following slashes with snarls and hisses and curses as her claws slice up more of the monster consuming dirk. her new ears flatten ever more against her skull and part of her wants to bite and rip into the writhing meat, just to show it how much business she means.

there's a rage roiling inside her that she's never felt before, and the more she indulges in it, the hotter it burns. her lips split the more her teeth sharpen, slicing through her flesh as she speaks. ]

Fight back, you prick!

[ she can't take this monster on her own, but she'll give it so much hell it'll wish it was in a nightmare of her creation. another snarl twists her lips as whiskers sprout from her cheeks, and roxy finally gives into the impulse, digging her fangs into soft, slick vines to rip them apart. ]

[gavehead]

_{[ It's not as if he hasn't felt death's sweet embrace before, though it was definitely a lot less cruel. Quiet. Brief. Cowardly, as mentioned before. He thinks maybe he deserves this more than anything else; more than a cheap way out. Through he feels faint and defenseless, a familiar voice breaks through the myriad of whispers echoing through his noisy mind; the desperation in it seemingly the only thing that causes him to shift; to finally crack open his eyes. Vision blurred, darkness creeping in the corners, he can see someone fighting for his life. No, not him fighting for his own life, but someone who should have been the leader all along. ]}

Ro..

_{[ It's hard to speak when you have something shoved down your throat (wonk), but once he can feel the vines beginning to loosen, he starts to shift his limbs and wings as if beginning to put up a fight finally. ]}

1.

[horologe]

Fuck ketchup, bring in the bar-bee-cue sauce.

[ like maybe some over the top condiments will make this all a little less unnerving, like maybe some cloyingly sweet tangy flavour will perk up the withering creature that is his appetite. ]

That aside, I gotta know: what the fuck is with the mask?

[gavehead]

Dunno. Can't say I know anything about the etiquette around here either. We just ask?

_{[ Apparently they are just skipping over their union here and going straight for the horseshittery. Dirk is a little surprised Dave is mentioning the mask before commenting on anything having to do with his wings and feathers, but he pipes up a little bit. ]}

"We eatin' ass over here, hey, chef,
Can we get some service, condiments to the left,
Got me a hot dog, now pass the ketchup,
Feeling so fly here, fuckin' till sun up,
Spittin' fire from my mouth, like wasabi,
Where my bitches at, where my homies,
Eating like royalty."

_{[ and yet, no service is to come. Especially not after that. ]}

[horologe]

[ a guy's gotta pick his battles. one weird aspect at a time. besides, focusing on the simple, easy stuff, it gives him the time to fit a bunch of pieces together, lets him find his rhythm without blurting his whole ass all over the place for everyone to hear.

now look: dirk is making it easy, giving him an opening, swinging wide a door that dave is all too happy to dash through. ]

"Even though I'll walk, into dinner,
Looking like gold, like a winner,
Still needing sauce like I own the place,
Motherfuckin' A1, slap it on the plate,
Then I lick my bowl, like a sinner,
Gimme seconds."

[ damnb. ]

[gavehead]

_{[ and the crickets chirp.
A'right. ]}

I'm giving this place a 1 star Yelp review.

[horologe]

[ damn shame, he is a lyrical genius. ]

I'd give it 2 for the sick suits. Just 2.

1

[saudades]

[One might think to be suspicious of the food in this grand hall, given what happened the last time one of these dreamscapes took hold of them, and yet. He doesn't mind at all. Maybe he'll get another glimpse of things that were never his to claim, yet were yearned for anyway. Or maybe it'll be something worse, but what could harm him now, anyway? It's worth the gamble.

He scoops up a generous helping of kidney onto his own plate, chuckling softly at the other's request.]

Mm, some aspects of this plane were malleable to our desires, if I remember right. How does the saying go? "Be the change you want to see in the world"!

[He's not sure if things will be the same, this time, but it can't hurt to try.]

[gavehead]

_{[ Well, would you just look at this chipper motherfucker. It's times like these that Dirk wishes he would have packed some emergency ketchup in his sylladex, but let's face it, it always has a fussy time cooperating with his fetch modus. Besides, it's not like he's ever had ketchup at all until recently, but goddamn if that shit ain't good. ]}

I sure as fuck didn't ask to be a feathery asshole. Not sure how malleable we are talking about here.

_{[ pressing x for doubt. ]}

I'd change the beverage choice too. Surely that's malleable.

_{[ right?? ]}

1

[lupusxylem]

[Oh hey, guess who's ALSO a bird? Not that Wolfwood has been letting himself think much of it. It's better to just disassociate instead of ask himself "hey, why do I have feathers now? Where did these wings come from?" and just assume they'll all be gone when he's awake. It's all just some fuckass dream, at the end of the day.

But boy, if it isn't the most vivid one he's ever had.

Anyway, Wolfwood is tapping his own curved claws against the glass of his brandy that he hasn't had another sip of just yet despite it being the only thing that's made him feel decent (a little...TOO decent, which is what makes him wary to drink more) when Dirk leans into his space and.

Wolfwood raises a brow, unseen beneath his mask.]

Dunno. Why don'tcha ask and see?

[gavehead]

<sub>[ As they say, birds of a feather.. flock together. It's not like Dirk grew in any sort of civilization and society to know how to act. The first time he had a meal with actual people at a table was quite recently, you know, after they created a whole new Earth to populate.

But anyway.

He gazes at this guy from behind his mask, a small silence passing by, before he .. like ... raises his hand? That's what you do to summon a server? Butler? Whatever? ]</sub>

Yo, hey, anyone. Over here.

_{[ let's see if that works. ]}

[lupusxylem]

[Dirk lifts his hand, and a long pause follows. Just...silence.

Nobody is paying them any particular attention, really. Nobody's coming over, nobody's bringing any ketchup.

...and Wolfwood snorts. Then, he starts to actually laugh, his shoulders shaking a little with his mirth. For once, it's not spurned on by magic booze or whatever.]

You fuckin' with me?

[gavehead]

I might be. I have been known to do some fucking now and then.

_{[ Nothing like two sarcastic assholes with big hearts bonding over the lack of service here. Kind of ironic that they are both birds too. Dirk can dig it. ]}

You mean to tell me they're gonna give us a five star meal but not five star service? Seems kind of suspicious if you ask me.

_{[ and yet, it all looks so good. He's not sure if he can resist. ]}

Dare you to try it first.

[lupusxylem]

[Honestly, that's what makes it the most suspicious of all. You don't need to have read a lot of fiction to know that the most gorgeous banquet you've ever seen just sitting out for you to partake in is a trap. It's honey for you to get stuck in, and once you're there you won't be able to get back out. Wolfwood knows this much- being a suspicious person himself- but...it doesn't matter when it's magic. When there's something pulling him in, and likely Dirk too, that's coercing them to partake.

In the end, resisting forever isn't going to be possible, and they probably both know that.]

Tch, you're gonna dare me and not even pick out which I'm s'posed to be eatin'?

1.

[pointedlook]

[ For his part, this whole thing is simultaneously rote as it is strange and new. At least, in his time dealing with Sleep and whatever the fuck she has going on, he's gotten better at determining when something was designed in her hand.

(Sort of, it still never hurt to roll his totem just in case.)

Her dream is more elaborate than the first one he remembers–an orchard, filled with glittering boughs weighted down by silver and gold-gilt fruit. The banquet has peeks of similar looking food, peppered in amongst the lavish serving dishes. Idly, he's been tilting his squat brandy glass to and fro, his hand cupped against the underside curve and fingers on either side of the stem. Drawn from watching the light catch on the sunny-looking liquid, he distractedly pulls his gaze away to look at who's addressing him.

A younger man, with a shock of blonde hair that seems to follow the same jut of his wings, the downy soft feathers of which extend under his jaw and down his neck. ]

Maybe. You'll want to be more specific, unless you're brand neutral.

[gavehead]

_{[ Oh, for fuck's sake. It's gonna be like that, is it? Just like the early days when he was learning how his inventory modus worked. One wrong word and that could very easily send a shit load of katanas you packed a week prior into that bad boy flying across the room. Fortunately, he lived by himself and always did, so there was no older bro to scold him for his rookie mistakes, which Dirk thought was a humongous oversight in parental guidance. Nevermind the fact his guardian died years before he ever ended up on Earth, but alas, his pettiness continues to prevail. ]}

I ain't terribly picky. Nothing from Betty Crocker though, and we'll be fucking fine. You sound familiar with this sort of place.

[pointedlook]

From— [ Does Betty Crocker even make ketchup? He's pretty sure the answer is no. But, whatever, he's moving past that. Reaching behind a fruit bowl piled high with the silvery star fruit, he produces a bottle of the asked-after condiment, setting it in front of the blonde's plate. Undoubtedly, the Heinz branded label will stick out amongst such lavish dishes; at least it's in a familiar glass container, found in diners the world over.

Picking up where he left off, as if nothing was odd about that entire moment: ]

Somewhat. Not this current place, exactly, since it's a different introduction than the one she's used before. Couldn't tell you if this one is better or worse than the orchard she dropped a bunch of us in, a couple months ago.

[ Well, not yet anyway. It was still too early in the evening. Dream-evening. Whatever. ]

1.

[vixenish]

[ the attire? rather appealing, actually! handsome. the mask?

she's kind of trying not to laugh as he addresses her, splayed fingers pressed lightly to her mouth beneath her soft, shimmering veil. translucent, it does little to hide her somewhat bemused smile.

he's not the only one dressed to impress, anyway. ]

I very much doubt it, but I suppose you could try asking.

[ she's teasing. ]

[gavehead]

<sub>[ Not like Dirk has much knowledge about girls and what looks nice on them, but he certainly knows one thing: he would definitely wear that dress of hers.. for ironic purposes. Of course, he can't reveal that godawful part of his godawful personality to her. Despite not growing up in any sort of civilization or society, Dirk thinks he sort of knows how to act like a somewhat decent creature that resembles a human when interacting with new people.

The feathers that cover his neck seem to puff out slightly as if he was trying to impress someone (spoiler: it's not her, it's whoever is around here to give them some goddamn ketchup.) ]</sub>

Ok.

_{[ ... ... ]}

Who.. do I ask.

[vixenish]

... the gods? [ she suggests, with a bright smile. she's still teasing. ]

You're not getting ketchup. Sorry to tell you.

[gavehead]

_{[ goddamn, he wants to speak to the manager. ]}

Don't they realize ketchup is the lifeblood of Texans? Is it always like this here?

[vixenish]

Not at all. Usually it's much worse.

[ said very casually. ]

I wouldn't eat that, anyway.