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JERICHO ● SEPTEMBER 2025 EVENT/TDM
TDM & EVENT: JERICHO
ᛗ
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.
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.
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.
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.
ᛗ
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:
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.OFFERING EFFECTS:
• 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.
• 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.
ᛗ
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.
The table awaits.
NOTES:
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.TOKEN EFFECTS:
• 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.
• 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.OFFERING EFFECTS:
• 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.
• 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.
ᛗ
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
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.TOKEN EFFECTS
• 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.
• Spells cast during acts of intimacy may provoke a heightened sensation of euphoria for both caster and whoever is affected by the spell.OFFERING EFFECTS
• 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.
• 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.
ᛗ
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:
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.TOKEN EFFECTS
• 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.
• Magic recoils violently when used on The Abomination, backfiring with psychic screams or ripping into your flesh.OFFERING EFFECTS
• 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).
• 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.
ᛗOOC 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!
➤ 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!
rumi | kpop demon hunters | new player!
prologue;
Things had been thankfully relatively quiet over the last few days since that confrontation with Gwi-ma and the girls had the chance to finally relax between schedules. It was a welcome shift for Rumi as well, the ability to finally be able to be more open with both Zoey and Mira about everything. They had accepted her half-demon heritage with more grace than what she had originally anticipated - but she should've probably expected that, considering that the three of them were sisters in all but name at this point. But the lessons that Celine had taught her weren't that easy to shake, even knowing what she did now. Between the few memories she could recall of her father, and what she had experienced with Jinu -
She winces.
Jinu. That was another can of worms that she probably should confront at one point.
It's with that thought that she falls asleep, and she would perhaps blame those lingering thoughts for being the reason why things turned out the way they did in her dreams.
She jolts with a gasp, eyes snapping open as she sits up on a dark beach, no stars in the sky, no moon. No sound. Distantly, she knows this isn't the first time that her subconscious seemed to do this.
Looking out to a blackened sea, water glittering like stardust or perhaps a sea of lightsticks at a concert. It comes closer, ever closer, like it always does, before she wakes again. The lightened patterns on her skin, her tangible symbol of accepting who she was fully, seems to provide the only light. Even though she would normally try to run away, something keeps her rooted in place, only able to stand and watch as the water starts to lap at her feet.
The water rises, the waves rising in a fever pitch crescendo, taller than her, taller than even Gwi-ma when she had raised her empowered sword (empowered with his soul) to split the infernal creature in twain with everyone's power, their hopes and dreams that had coalesced into her blade -
But what should have been a crushing weight that would have swept her away instead just seems to simply swallow and embrace her fully, her patterns faintly glowing even still in the blackness.
"Come home."
Rumi had always awakened before this point in previous instances, so she didn't recognize the voice that started to wrap around her like a second skin. If she weren't enraptured, she would've wondered if this was what it was like for Jinu to hear Gwi-ma's promises of a better life, back then.
She wouldn't have blamed him for taking the deal, if that were the case.
Her eyes slip shut, embracing the warmth-
"You are mine. You always were."
And then they snap open again, a weight against her face that seems to feel … comforting. Right in a way that she couldn't articulate even in song. The lines in gold mirroring her patterns. It felt right to keep it on her face.
So instead, Rumi lets herself try and readjust to her new surroundings, even if the silence was the most unnerving part of it all.
Until it wasn't, whether by another Vessel, or a soft humming that she starts to try and fill the silence. It was a strange habit she hadn't indulged in a very long time, her activities in HUNTR/X usually keeping her from noticing silence and feeling the itch under her skin to fill it with sound.
sink like precious stones;
Rumi is almost sorry to feel the water recede, but she still finds herself adrift, somehow. She would normally be in awe, and even though she would say that a lot of her self-doubt had been dispelled due to recent events, she still was human.
Doubts and fears were still present, imprinted on her very soul to an extent. Glittering diamond intercut with gold veins crack her forearms, the lines of gold tracing along where her patterns lay. Her eyes widen from behind the mask -
No, she can't let her doubts cloud her mind like this, even as her mouth opens in a silent scream-
She could rise above this.
She had to.
you taste like new flesh - roasted lamb in mint sauce;
It wouldn't be the first time that Rumi had worn an outfit that was more about the embellishments than any sort of practicality - being an international pop star tended to force her and the others to indulge in pageantry more often than she would care to admit. Choreography in those conditions was an interesting time, to say the least.
But, thankfully, this wasn't that sort of situation.
The worst of it was perhaps the drapery being a tripping hazard if it came down to it, but she could work with it. She didn't remember having to also pull her hair back and up, twisting her usual braid, but thankfully however she had managed to pin it, it was enough that it didn't weigh too heavily on her head in comparison.
Still-
Rumi watches as others start to eat, and she wasn't the type to let food go to waste after all. The lamb is fork-tender, the mint cutting through to mingle with it but not enough to overwhelm-
It's certainly not the snacks she's used to indulging in pre-concert, of course, but she also has no problem in indulging in the finer things, blissfully unaware of the effect that it may have on those around her.
i am not worthy;
Unfortunately, this is more in line with something that she has faced in the past. While most demons that she's faced in the past haven't looked nearly this grotesque or visceral, the modus operandi of the creatures that erupt from the remains of those around them is unfortunately familiar.
It's only that familiarity that keeps her from retching, and that same familiarity that has her trying to usher away anyone who was frozen in fear. She holds out a hand, eyes narrowing from behind her mask even as she tries to keep an eye on the enemy, knowing that she had a better chance to fight back than most, even if she still can't summon her sword, somehow. The disconnect is unnerving, but she had to do something.
"Hurry! I'll hold them off."
wildcard;
( feel free to hit me with something else if you want, dm me or hmu @
not worthy.
"Girl, with what?"
The change that ran through her was painful in the minutes before, overtaking skin with fur and elongating nails to become claws. Thick pawpads spread over her palms as Roxy continues to hesitate, quickly looking over the area as though to find an exit. She may not be good at much (she thinks), but she's great at finding ways to flee. Ironic, Roxy will later think, that the one between them with weapons is the one more concerned with fleeing.
"C'mon, we're both going!"
no subject
But this wasn't a situation to think, this was a situation where she needed to act.
As much as she wanted to, Roxy had a point - they needed to get out of here, and quick. The shifts in her form cause Rumi to blink a couple times - though her own glowing from trying to tap into another power source than the one that she was accustomed to wasn't normal (again, a thought for another time), the animal traits that started to appear had her startled for a moment before Roxy's words fully register. "R-right!"
no subject
"Fuckin' things." There's blood on them already, the patches of fur matted with old blood from when she fought to get her friend away from this beast. Last thing anyone needs is for that blood to get around — and she definitely doesn't want to harm her new friend and her cool-ass hair.
And there's that urge again. That fucking urge. Growing up from the depths of her mind and trying, oh, it's trying to tell Roxy what to do. But she fights it. She fights it and she'll continue to fight it as they put some distance between themselves and the Abomination, trying to ignore the way the fleshy vines follow and wind around.
you taste like new flesh
but one individual catches her eye from across the way, a purple-haired woman with one massive single braid who is behaving like a poor little guppy out of her own pond. strangely intrigued, jinx rises from her seat and then drags the chair across the way—the legs screaming a horrendous screech until she makes it to rumi's table. without a word, she plops the chair down, popping a squat backwards, and flashes a grin. the kind of smile that could be a mixture of "a mean girl" sneer or... maybe it could be friendly.]
Hi.
no subject
Oh.
Huh.
She lifts a hand slowly, giving what she hopes is a friendly smile, though it may seem a little tight at the corners as she's trying to suss out the entire situation. Being able to put on a fairly put-together front is part and parcel of what she does - did - for a living. ]
Hi?
no subject
Fancy dress.
[she compliments (or what it appears to be), her tongue rolling behind her lips.]
Is this your usual digs, or is it something they cooked up?
[by 'they' she nudges her head towards the guardians and One, who remain so still and watchful. ]
no subject
Still, she does give a small bow of her head at the compliment (?), though the question has her pause briefly, only to watch as Jinx motions toward the figures standing at the edges of the banquet. ]
Mm - thanks. It wouldn't be out of place at an award show but... definitely don't remember wearing this one. [ Though the implication doesn't really make her feel much better. ]
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[she echoes, seizing that minuscule bit of information and running with it. that alone is helping her decipher more about this purple-haired woman's home life. because the only people who are able to attend "award presentations" are, in fact, very important people. with money. could she be one of those? again, she's got the looks and the posture of one.]
So are you a big shot, Lavender?
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Kinda depends on what your definition of "big shot" is, I guess.
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[the smirk dances over her face, an eyebrow quirks in a tease, but it's all harmless. mostly.]
You know. The usual shtick of a high-horse with a twig jammed up their butt.
precious stones
Subaru has long since escaped the void horizon where a starless black sky meets a starless black ocean, fortified with glass. Treacherous to doubt, kind to belief, it's the trapping of an ancient slumber. Only... he'd been pulled up out of the deep, out of the froth, through the shattering of his faith. He'd long since walked to shore. But he'd grown tired of the palace, the banquet, the errant cascade of decadence and debauchery in its halls wet with a beast's breathing.
So, he returned to the sea to help. And it's lucky that he does, catching the moment that someone awakens and also splinters through the glass bridge while he walks the waves. Breaking into a run, he skids to a top and drops to his knees, plunging his arm into the water, fingers outstretched. ]
Take my hand!
[ Can she hear him from below? ]
no subject
Hearing him isn't the problem, of course - and it's only through sheer determination borne from frustration that allows her to be able to stretch out, kicking her legs to try and propel herself upward enough so that her fingers finally graze his, even as stiff as they are.
The real question is will it be enough or will she accidentally drag him down as well? ]
no subject
Immediately, he sinks low against the bridge, the weight pulling against him. Bracing on his opposite palm, the glass pulses beneath him, faith made tangible over the whorls. ]
You reached me... [ It isn't the first time he's fought against the undertow to bring someone back up with him. ] Now tell the waters what you want!