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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III.

[judications]

[ The voice catches him before Neuvillette even sees the Duke, following the sounds of it towards the room in question. His eyes widen a fraction as he sees the abomination inside, wishing he still had full access to his hydromancy to deal with it quickly, especially before it binds Wriothesley any further.

In the absence of better alternatives, he moves to tear the tentacles with his bare hands, though his strength is also a fraction of what it is back in their world. Not enough to rip through the tentacles but just enough to start pulling them away as he tries to gauge if there are any wounds on Wriothesley's body.

The smell of putrefaction curls beneath his nose, and he worries it might reach and infect Wriothesley's flesh if he does not act quickly enough. ]

You must flee quickly.

[ No time for greetings and pleasantries. They can both ask questions later. ]

[armwriostle]

[It's not often that the warden is overwhelmed, yet nothing has prepared him for whatever hellscape this place had become. It's not just the sudden gore that fills the halls nor the putrid smell of rot and decay, though the smell seems strong as they burn through his senses and makes his eyes water. No, there's also the seemingly physical pain that seems to course through him. It's like the feeling of his bones shifting and changing. It reminds him of the feeling of breaking bones, but worse.

The voice is familiar though and it cuts through the fog, bringing some amount of clarity. At least for the moment.

He lets the other assist him while he tries to catch his bearings as best he can. Bruising lingers where things had clung to him too tightly, but those seem less important than Wriothesley's somewhat changed state. A hand reaches out to cling to the other man, nails more claw-like than the usual trimmed nails the boxer keeps and the ring of yellow that always lingered in his eyes seemed to have bled and buried the usual steel blue until only a ring remains amongst molten gold.

His voice is a bit rough when he speaks.] I- [He realizes that there's some hesitance from within himself. Like he doesn't want to flee. Logically, he knows what they're facing is a threat and that leaving was what he should do. Should want. Yet, part of him almost is compelled. Like some siren's call.]

My body isn't cooperating.

[judications]

[ With his powers whittled down, his hydromancy emerges as a soft deluge of water rather than a powerful geyser –not enough to fell the abomination. Only enough to inconvenience it and chase some of the tentacles away. Still, he is not without physical strength, even if that too is compromised. ]

Then please forgive my rudeness for this. We should speak more elsewhere when we have found a safer venue.

[ He immediately grabs a hold of Wriothesley and pushes him over his shoulder, carrying as he would a sac of potatoes. It is inelegant and intrusive, but he is not sure what else to do with Wriothesley feeling immobilized as he is. Should Wriothesley strike out at him, he can endure.

Now all that remains is finding a way out, a feat that would be considerably easier were he access to his dragon authority. The best he can do is launch himself away from the tentacles at the first opening he can find, searching quickly for a window, door, or otherwise. He's so distracted by finding a way out that he doesn't realize there are scales starting to emerge from his skin. ]

[armwriostle]

[He'd laugh a little if his body didn't feel like it wanted to contort itself into a pretzel right now. At least Neuvillette seems ever so polite even if he's being hauled over the dragon's shoulder so unceremoniously. He doesn't even get to be princess carried??? Damn.

Wriothesley, for what it's worth, doesn't do anything but be completely pliant. Maybe a bit too pliant since he's nothing more than deadweight. He'd jokingly voice that Neuvillette should leave him, but the man certainly would never and he'd likely be reprimanded. Instead, he is more distracted by whatever voice seems to have took hold of his senses. Being taken away from the abomination seems to have him almost yearning. The scent that threatens to choke him was also alluring in a way he doesn't understand.

He tries really hard not to put up a fuss and desperately tries to find himself again. It feels like he doesn't fit right in his skin nor does his thoughts feel like they're all his and maybe that realization does a lot to reground him. Not having control of his mind at least spooks him to want to get a grasp on it again.

He finally shifts to turn and look back at the other and away from the grotesque being.] Behind the pillars on the right should be an entrance. I entered that way earlier. [His voice has a growl to it now, sounding a little rougher than he usually does.]

It leads to a hallway and should help put space between it and us. [Wriothesley obviously had been mapping the place out incase.]

[judications]

[ He'll get princess-carried when he's behaving less feral, and the growl isn't giving Neuvillette the greatest amount of confidence at the moment that Wriothesley won't lash out until he's taken somewhere safer. Neuvillette's grip tightens, following his directions to the exit while efficiently dodging the tentacles that threaten to ensnare him and trip him up. He doesn't slow down until there's enough distance between the two of them and that creature, setting Wriothesley down with more care than he had while grabbing him.

His eyes sweep over his form immediately after, checking for any serious injuries even if there is not much Neuvillette can do except clean and patch up his wounds at the moment. ]

Once again, forgive my ill-mannered greeting. I did not expect to find you here in such a precarious position.

[ The creature's entreaty had been needling itself through his own mind too, but his worry over Wriothesley had kept him from allowing his self-doubts to overtake his rationale. He can't say the same for Wriothesley, which makes him all the more uneasy as he studies the warden. ]

Do you need some more time to recover before we address the peculiarities of our simultaneous abduction to this world?

[armwriostle]

[Any injuries Wriothesley had were superficial at best. Maybe a few cuts and nicks, but nothing particularly bad. Nothing worth noting, especially when the man's physical form was...well, it wasn't what it used to be.

When Neuvillette manages to get a good look over, he'll find that parts of the man has definitely changed. The more clawed hands for one. His nose and mouth seemed to have been pushed forward, starting to resemble that of a snout. Either his hairline had suddenly grown lower, his eyebrows were growing, or that was definitely dark fur starting to grow and meld with his hair. The changes were growing with every second and Wriothesley raises a clawed hand to rub at his jaw as though it'll alleviate the fact that his bones are literally transforming under his damn fingertips.

He huffs a little, though the sound is more doggish than human now. He doesn't even want to think about all this because then he'd have to think about why the damned hell his body is doing this.

At least Neuvillette is a good distraction for a few different things. Like talking. Talking is good. And also he can't help but reach out to press a finger to some of the scales growing on the man. What is personal space???] You don't have to apologize. Everything happened so suddenly. I had been expecting something to happen, but as soon as things started happening, it felt like my body was starting to contort.

[Ignore the fact it is still contorting, but they don't have time to try and figure out how to stop it. If it can be stopped. Being farther away from the abomination also seems to help steady his mind.] No, we don't have time for recovering. I don't know if that's even possible. We should figure out how to move forward. Quickly.

[judications]

[ All of it is fitting as Wriothesley has always had a wolf's heart and countenance. Fierce. Indomitable. Loyal and protective of his own to a fault. Neuvillette always admired that about him, but he is too busy being worried over the warden's health and safety to properly appreciate the transformation in full, especially if there is a possibility Wriothesley might lose all sense of self and allow his ferocity to override his better judgment once more. ]

Are you certain you do not wish to address your state first? I am not in a position where I would be able to exercise any level of containment at present should your mind falter.

[ He feels distractedly bare without access to his usual powers, and he can feel that his own body is also not quite right. Not quite wrong either, if he's honest with himself. He has longed to feel his own scales for a long time but not in the presence of any of his human colleagues.

Fortunately, his voluminous coat and gloves cover the worst of it as he feels it spread its way along his arms, ever climbing closer to his collarbone as his own fangs start to scrape across his own forked tongue. ]

...On further consideration, perhaps retreating further from that creature may yet clear both our minds further.

[ And hopefully dispel whatever is causing their bodies to change. He is not ready to expose that part of himself to Wriothesley –may never be. ]

[armwriostle]

[He snarls a little, but it seems like its more out of frustration than him being too feral. The way he expresses himself has shifted too. One doesn't realize how human their reactions are until they've had some of that humanity morphed or taken away and replace it with something else. He also just needs to release some sort of frustration, his entire body aching terribly. Worst experience. Would not recommend.]

I'm good. Fine. Even if I wanted to discuss something, what could be said? I'm apparently a werewolf now? Given that this place has food laced to pull out our most intimate moments and a sex dungeon that alters one mind, I think that also apparently having bones transform doesn't seem so farfetched. [His words are meant to be somewhat lighthearted in the ridiculousness of this place, but it also touches on how it has so much power over them.

Wriothesley lets out another frustrated growl as he yanks his boots off, finding that they're only hindering him. The way his legs look don't seem right, and those are definitely large paws instead of feet.

At least there are toe beans. Surely toe beans make everything better, right?

It's relieving to have gotten ride of his boots and he finally moves to get onto his feet, somewhat unsteady as though learning how to walk again. Still, there's a stubbornness in the man that's always been there and especially present now that his mind seems to be clearer. He abhors how easily influenced he had been in that moment. Enough that he grinds his teeth a little.] We should be moving anyways. It'll likely start pursuing people and we should warn others we come across to avoid it.

[As he speaks though, his sharp gaze seems to be studying Neuvillette carefully. If he wants to comment on something, he doesn't, but there is some moments of curiosity, like someone putting puzzle pieces into place.]

[judications]

[ The toe beans are distracting indeed, and he's trying not to allow his thoughts to drift. The wolf transformation continues to be...exceptionally enthralling to his more primal senses, but he's spent enough centuries muffling that part of himself for Fontaine's benefit. He is not about to let his draconic instincts override his civil nature over a few toe beans.

Though one thing Wriothesley said does stand out to him... ]

Forgive my naivety on the subject, but what do you mean by "sex dungeon"?

[ That sounds terribly invasive, if not illegal, if it is anything like he is picturing and if anyone who wanders in is being forced to participate against their will. Thankfully, Neuvillette had not encountered it on his way here, though he had been focused on other matters at the time.

Or one other matter.

That matter being right in front of him. He could pick up Wriothesley's scent from a few rooms away even if had been slightly altered by his physical change. It's still far too familiar to Neuvillette for him to miss, though he will keep that fact to himself. ]

[armwriostle]

[If this were a less tense situation, he might have fully leaned into the comedic moment of Fontaine's Iudex asking him about sex dungeons. The whole conversation is honestly such a strange hilarity that he'd love to dive into. Honestly? Maybe it'll help cut the tension, but he also isn't sure he's prepared to go into detail about a space that exists for people to live their most debauched lives.

Even more so because he might have enjoyed it himself a little bit.

The Iudex does not need to know about his sex life.

Wriothesley still laughs, which comes out a bit like a bark. Damn, this transformation stuff is a little crazy. A snout has formed and hair is blending into fur, and the way that ring of gold seems have to mostly swallow the steel blue in his eyes doesn't change that Wriothesley is still Wriothesley. Just, perhaps, a little more doggish.] Really? The sex dungeon part is what you want to focus on?

[Wow, please don't tell Wriothesley that he could be smelled from rooms away or he's going to have to really think about the fact that Neuvillette might have sensed his arousal or whatever during some of those sexcapades. He might die a little inside.]

I guess you didn't go down below? It was just a lot of people having a lot of sex. I don't know if now is the right time about that. [But he does continue to laugh a little. Somehow, the ridiculousness helps settle the initial tension and relieves some of the stress as he endures the way his bones are literally shifting in real time.]

[judications]

[ It likely isn't, and Neuvillette has to wonder if he isn't suffering from some ill effects himself from being in this castle similar to Wriothesley's transformation. His mind is certainly keen on hyper-fixating on all of Wriothesley's new traits and the different spicy notes in his scent that weren't there before. ]

My apologies. I was simply worried that it involved some level of captivity and coercion that requires immediate addressing.

[ Though the impression that he's getting from Wriothesley is that it is a dungeon in name only –likely another part of human courtship rituals that elude his understanding. From what he knows through his centuries of observation over their kind, they do have peculiar ways of fraternizing with one another behind closed doors. ]

Did you experience any trouble yourself while venturing through the dungeon?

[ Wriothesley does look a bit roughed up, but that could have all been due to the creature that was attacking him just now. Besides, Neuvillette doesn't want to pry too deeply into the warden's business if he would rather keep his experiences private. ]

[armwriostle]

[If he ever finds out that Neuvillette can smell his scent, he might be embarrassed at the concept. He might then also ask Neuvillette what he smells like (which is a mix of chill and metal with that hint of a warm earthy note; like tea on a winter day). This isn't about that though.

They're really here talking about a sex dungeon and possibly his sex life. This really wasn't on his bingo card.]

Technically, being in this place already ticks those boxes if we're going to get into the semantics of being captives and coerced. There was something strange upon entering it. [He does not have the vocabulary to explain alphas and omegas at all. Help.] But that kind of stuff is usually packed into the scene than it being a legitimate concern.

[He opens and closes his hand a few times, as though getting used to the changes in his body. He's thankful for the conversation, even if it's somewhat mortifying. Somehow, it's the most grounding thing out of all this chaos.] Anything from my time there is superficial at best. Well, if you're asking if if I got a little roughed up from what I partook in, I'll admit that I find that enjoyable.

[He laughs after a moment.] I think having my entire skeleton change in real time and that abomination roughened me up than a hot night with a stranger.

[judications]

[ That would certaintly explain some of the other indiscernible aromas clinging to him, though his own long dragon horns glow faintly at Wriothesley's other admission even his face remains neutral. His dragon appendages seem more inclined to signal what his lips won't at the moment, which is that he is very much interested in learning more about Wriothesley's preferences even when he knows he should not. There is a firm boundary of duty they should never cross, and he must not allow instinct and fondness for Wriothesley to override rationale. ]

I am relieved that that experience was not as harrowing as your encounter with the creature. However...did you leave behind your partner in the dungeon, or were they also victim to the attack?

[ He did not see anyone else in there with Wriothesley, but he is now starting to doubt his recollections. If it was someone important to Wriothesley, Neuvillette doesn't want them to remain in harm's way. ]

I can return to rescue them while you continue to recover.

[ The creature's touch had not affected him quite as strongly for as little as it had pierced through him, and he is far more durable as a dragon than Wriothesley and most other people really. ]