JAWS • DECEMBER 2025 EVENT/TDM

[uruz]

TDM & EVENT: JAWS

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Show Me Those Pretty White Jaws

The dream has been coming in waves for those new to Sleep's touch, as a shoreline that never stays still. As a sky that never remembers to include its stars. Beneath it all, there is a voice. Her voice: silk-sweet, coaxing from just beyond the approaching wave that towers like a moving mountain. She tells you to come home. She promises it won't hurt, even if she never tells you what waits beneath. You see the shape just before the dream ends: a massive black tidal wave, yawning wide and black until it looks like a pair of jaws breaking upon you. You don't have time to resist.

You and your veteran Vessels will awaken in water.

There is no surface. No bottom. No sky. No sound but your own heartbeat and the echoes of water being slashed though, dull and endless in the still, frigid dark. You are suspended, weightless— Some may have difficulty to breathe without inhaling water the first few times, while those aligned with the waves will feel it come like second nature. Once you acclimate yourself, you'll notice that around you drift glowing filaments; thin, pulsing threads that coil like jellyfish tendrils, softly luminescent. They curl and twist through the water, and when you look closer, you realize: they show you things. Memories, maybe. Dreams, maybe. Each one unique to your gaze: a hand reaching for yours in the dark, a goodbye that never finished, a face you haven't seen in years. They are what you think love looks like. What you once needed it to be. And when you touch them, they wrap around you, gently, warmly . . . Hungrily— and begin to pull you down.

To ascend into the next level, you must let go. But not everything that binds you wants to be released. The filaments drifting through the water show you what you think love looks like— what you've built it into. They are gentle at first, beautiful even, but the longer you cling, the more they pull.

There are ways to escape them: You may bind your filament with another's and together speak aloud a shared truth: what you believe love really is. If your hearts align or at the very least come to an agreement, the threads dissolve into light and lift you upward. If your beliefs clash or contradict, the threads knot tighter, and something . . . May take interest in you.

Beneath you, something moves. Huge, silent and almost regal. It glides through the deep like a phantom, almost too large to be real. You feel its presence before you see its flash of pearl white and glowing red eyes, three on each side of its face: a shark.

The shark is here to choose its next meal. It smells grief, fear and seeks out trauma most of all. It is drawn to the most unspoken parts of you, the very parts you thought were buried, roused from the tightened ropes of what you crave in your heart. And when it chooses you, it does not bite immediately. It invites, with its jaws opening like a sanctuary and slow towards you.

Inside is I, whispers Sleep. Allow Me to have you whole, and you will be at peace. Show Me love.

Fight against her, or even with your current partner about what love is, and Sleep will open her maw, spilling tendrils from her throat and begin to stalk you. Best be prepared to fight the possessed Megalodon— She will laugh, amused as you do, like a great cat playing with its food. And if you were to be caught, well. You'll wake in the dream's next level with an undeniable prey drive, whether Token or Offering.

She will do anything to keep you here.

NOTES:

• There is no surface visible at first. Light only comes from the filaments. As characters resist, act, or ascend, a faint stained-glass shimmer begins to pulse upward, hinting at the dream's next layer.
• Sound is muffled— speech emerges as bubbles, but meaning travels regardless. Words feel heavy here. Some phrases may literally change the water (turn to light, birth dream-objects, or ripple with tension). You will do better using The Murmur as a means of communication. Luckily you have your mask on!
• The Shark always circles once it senses trouble within you. Sometimes close, sometimes far, but always felt. If characters listen closely, they can hear the echo of One's voice coming from inside it: pleading with a haunted, at times screaming melody.

TOKEN EFFECTS

• The dream bends subtly around Tokens, especially at the whims of an Aquamancer. Walls of pressure open before them, and filaments shift course as if expecting them. This can make their path easier, unless they start to doubt their purpose.
• Tokens perceive emotional resonance as currents in the water such as subtle flows of energy. These can guide them (or others) toward escape paths, or signal when the shark is near.
• When a Token speaks or acts with strong intent, the dream sometimes translates it into a symbolic structure: A word might become a floating glyph. A gesture might alter the filament's shape. A moment of clarity might reveal a hidden path. Other characters can interact with these dream-objects, but they're fragile, unstable, and prone to distortion by doubt.
• The deeper Tokens go, the more they feel themselves pulling apart and begin to experience dual awareness: one part dreaming, one part watching— some may even see flashes of within the shark's belly, and One's voice much louder. The deeper they go, the more detached they become, and the more they lack the ability to act at all.

OFFERING EFFECTS

• The shark is more fascinated by Offerings. It circles them often, sensing kinship— or potential. The more monstrous the Offering, the more the shark "pauses' near them, almost curious.
• Offerings feel "the pull" more clearly, particularly Merrows and other aquatic-based Offerings—they can sense where the surface might be, and where the shark intends to strike next. They may even see pulses in the water that others miss, similar to Spider Man's "spidey senses".
• An Offering may experience rapid body changes submerged. Fins may appear, bones may shift, teeth may lengthen without warning and so on. This makes their movement easier or harder, depending on how much of themselves they're holding back or how apt their monstrous forms are at swimming.
• Some Offerings may feel drawn to the shark— not in fear, but in understanding. They may see themselves in it, and vice versa— One's song in particular is hypnotic, and for split moments you may understand his pain through his words. This might make you more prone to being consumed, though, so hopefully your partner can help you out of it—?.

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Watching Me With Eyes Of A Predator

The surface you breach is not water— it's glass.

You strike it with the force of falling sky. It fractures beneath you in a bloom of painted light. For one weightless moment, the dream hesitates, sputters. Then the world shatters, and you fall with the cascade.

Water pours through the crack in the ceiling, carrying you down in ribbons of color and a shattering splash. Stained glass shards drift like petals through the now collapsing roof, and you eventually land not in sand, but upon a cathedral floor, slick with tide. Around you, the water spreads, pooling across the stone and swallowing the walls in a rising hush as it finds escape through the doors.

The cathedral is vast, impossibly so. Its architecture towers, crooked and immaculate, built more from longing than stone. No altar awaits you. No congregation. Only the sensation of having trespassed into something meant to be private. Veteran Vessels may recognize this cathedral as St. Patrick's— before it was drenched in One's blood sacrifice.

High above and surrounding you, the stained-glass mosaics churn with captured light. f you linger beneath one of the window's rays, your appearance may begin to change under the light. You appear as someone else sees you. Be it a hero. A monster. A disappointment. A god. A weakness. A temptation. Even a burden. That version of you clings to your dream-body like a second skin; uncomfortable, intimate, and undeniable. For some, it may be beautiful. For others, unbearable.

If you and another stand beneath the same window, you may each appear as the other secretly imagines. There is no control and no negotiation. Only truth twisted through the lens of want, resentment, fear, or love. And it doesn't go away until you leave the light.

Eventually, the cathedral doors open by dream's will. Beyond them lies a cloister garden: narrow paths, pale trees, and wild flowers that bloom in stillness. At the far end, behind the overgrowth and ruined arches, you see a hollow.

It is a corridor where the dream collapses inward, twisting, warped, half-swallowed in fog and dread. Its stones pulse faintly beneath a shallow film of water. Black tendrils reach from its depths like roots, veins, twitching toward sound, warmth, and movement. You see them dragging matter into the earth, and between them lie bones, contorted and fresh, half-consumed.

And farther still, a body that still breathes. Glimpsed only briefly, A masked man's form is stretched by the hollow's gravity, arms pinned behind the veil. He does not move, or speak. Or perhaps, he cannot. The hollow does not let him go and will not, should you make your attempts. If you step foot in the hollows that have consumed him, you too will be consumed. A three eyed Tod sits at the hollow's edge, a single bushy tail splitting into three, as its body plays with illusion like smoke put to dance over fire. It says, as its head floats up and its maw splits into a grin too cheshire to ignore: Wearing shoes, yet no feet in sight. You'll hear steps pound in the death of night. What is it that you need, to cross this narrow blight?

It disappears and only leaves you the riddle to chew on.

Nothing living can cross the hollow, you'll soon find. Nothing except . . . The Nightmares.

Just outside the garden's boundary, you'll find horses built from wind and shadow, flickering at the edge of your vision. Their bodies are black— not the color, but the absence, swallowing all light. Some of their craniums cound be seen, others have a jutting horn of bone from their foreheads. Where eyes should be, there are six: three stacked on each side of the skull, glowing dimly red like distant embers beneath ice. Their manes flow like torn fabric, like drifting vapor that trails behind them like the smoke from a snuffed candle. Their maws are too damn wide to be herbivorous, yet they seem to enjoy the act of grazing. They wait, unchained and wild in a herd.

This is the only way forward. Only they can pass through the hollow untouched. But how to ride one—? You may chase them. You may plead, command, kneel. You may offer them all your need and all your love, promises that you will provide if they become your steed. But they were not made to answer it. For every Vessel, there is one single Nightmare that will choose them, and thus you will choose each other. They have their own personalities, some more aggressive or shyer than others. The harder you reach, the faster they vanish or harshed they will attack if unready. Try to mount one through force, and you'll regret ever trying. Try to bind one, and it will break you.

But if you are patient, if you figure out its nature and how to please it— your Nightmare may come closer. One may circle you. It may bow its head. Their snort is warm and real against your palm. If successful, it will lower itself to its knees. If you've got the height, they will simply wait, patiently, for you to get on their backs (Or not; there are plenty of sassy mares out there).

If you accept, you might not be taken somewhere safe, but you will be taken somewhere true, away from here. And if you force your want upon them, if you cannot let go— you will be left with something else.

In the distance, across the flooded cathedral floor, you may see One again. Flashes, glimpses. Always chasing a mare he never reaches, or the opposite— the mare chases after him.

NOTES:

• If a character successfully forms a bond with their Nightmare, it will return with them in the form of a waking world steed, officially introduced in the next event. You're free to give it the personality you wish.
• If a character attempts to force a connection with a Nightmare at any point (tries to catch, mount, command, etc.), the mare will bite or kick, which Vessels will suffer as a persistent dream-mark that will carry into the waking world.

TOKEN EFFECTS

• Light clings unnaturally to Tokens in the cathedral, especially near the stained glass. It bends around their bodies like a false halo, casting them in divine or monstrous outlines depending on who watches.
• If a Token casts or channels any magic within the cathedral or near a Nightmare, the spell does not manifest, but instead, a cold mist escapes their mouth, and the Nightmare turns to look. The dream rejects force.
• When a Nightmare looks directly at a Token, their eyes eclipse, pupils vanishing into rings of shadow. In that moment, a fragmented vision floods the Token's mind . . . not from the Nightmare, but from another character nearby. It shows the Token how that character once dreamed of them, what they feared, needed, or hoped they would become.

OFFERING EFFECTS

• The stained glass causes a subtle change in scent and physical appearance turning into a more grotesque version of this— Offerings begin to smell or look like what others most want from them.
• Offerings may always know where the Nightmares are, even when hidden. But the more they try to act on this knowledge, the harder the Nightmares are to reach.
• An Offering's body will react before they realize it, flinching from lies, bristling in moments of emotional pressure, pulling away from contact, and so on. They may startle even at gentle contact, as if something inside them is as reactive as they are.

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Where The Delicate Stops

As your Nightmare takes you through the misty hollow, you may begin to notice the empty city of Manhattan as veterans remember. There is no warning but the eerie silence that surrounds you like impossible weights. The cathedral once behind you folds inward— wrong, deep and full of pressure. It bursts through the hollow's path, through the city's street, and then— The dream ruptures.

Stone peels backward like paper. Glass liquefies mid-air. The sky above the city pulls itself inside out. Time bends sideways. And from the edges of the dream, something, someone, begins to hunt. Sleep's presence moves like the very shark she chose as a vision of her physical manifestation. She does not speak or rage. But you feel Her, rising like fever beneath the skin of Her world as the hairs at the back of your neck do. She does not want you this deep, and neither does One.

Somewhere within the collapse, you may see them— entwined, shifting, trembling. One's face is turned toward you, screaming something that doesn't reach your ears. Sleep's hands are tangled in his body. She pulls him back with a gentleness that breaks the sky, and he screams, reaching for you with his last breath before consumption. The dream convulses.

The Nightmares bolt with you still on them.

The city rises to meet you from the shadows, but it's not the city you know. Skyscrapers twist at unnatural angles. Streets flood, then dry, then flood again. Tendrils burst from subway grates and gutters, slashing upward like tongues. Streetlights spin like compass needles. Cars levitate, crash, freeze midair. You move through it all at breakneck speed, but the exit keeps shifting— a hole in the world that flickers just beyond reach where you see your body, fast asleep.

Somewhere in the chaos, a few Nightmares are caught. Sleep strikes like lightning— she coils like a viper and tightens like a vice. One touch from Her, and your Nightmare collapses mid-gallop, its body unraveling into smoke and light. No sound. No scream. Just absence. And you fall right off it like a ragdoll.

Others fall beneath impact, too— a wrong turn, a shattered wall, a burst of heat from One's grief. A broken leg. A crash. A wound too deep to ride through. If your steed is lost, you fall. And if no one reaches for you, you stay fallen. Others are near, and their Nightmares still run. All of you have a terrible dread in your bones— if you are caught or left behind, the consequences will be dire. You might not even wake up. So, call out. Cling. Climb. Share. Two Vessels on one mount. Anything to survive and flee as the dreamscape tightens its wrathful grip around you.

Sleep calls inside your spine. You can't make out what She says. One answers, the same blur of garbled words in your marrow. And then, just before the dream can take you, just before you reach an exit— you rise.

Your body lifts from the Nightmare as it paddles the air with desperation, it too rising. You're pulled upward, weightless, as if a thread inside your heart has been yanked by a furious god. You float, twist in the air. Your vision glows white.

We've got you.

And then you wake up— mid-air in the waking world.

Your body slams into your bed, floor, street, soil, wherever it was that you had slept. Reality greets you with terrible impact.

NOTES

• If a character does not find a mount in time, they may be caught in the dream collapse. They still wake— but they wake broken. These characters may wake up bruised, disoriented, or emotionally fragmented, and this can be explored in the next waking world event.

TOKEN EFFECTS

• Any Tether they feel becomes unstable—splintered. For brief moments, they feel it breaking and re-forming again and again, with slight differences each time.
• The more emotionally charged they are, the more the dream pulls toward them; tendrils snap faster, debris veers unnaturally close.
• Their body flickers with signs of their own magic—sigils, symbols, runes— burning just beneath the surface of their skin like constellations. These glow brighter as the dream collapses, as if trying to tear free.

OFFERING EFFECTS

• Where Offerings are grazed or injured, they bleed light, not red. It floats up like mist.
• They hear One's heartbeat, not theirs, and it speeds in panic. It affects their own pulse, the mare under them . . .
• The Nightmare no longer follows the Offering's will—it will respond to their fear instead.

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OOC NOTES

➤ Welcome to Somnia's third TDM, which doubles as the month's gamewide event!
➤ This TDM is considered game canon. You are free to have your character remember as many details as possible when they wake up.
➤ Only new characters are free to experiment with the Vessel options, Token or Offering 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

[beaffrayed]

Aye -- I think I know the type. [ As if summoned by Fray's constant thoughts, the light in the room changes once more; outside the windows there is the pale light of eternal winter, the ever-falling snow. In the distance, the soaring heights of Ishgard's spires. (Two filaments, joined together). ]

He was more of the raise-and-teach sort, since we'd no group nor family to call our own save one another. Orphans, the both of us. He worked us hard.

Similar to your mentor in some ways, mayhap. He expected much of us... [ He prods at a letter with his foot. ] As she did of you, seems like.

[markingnight]

[ There was a bit of warmth to Ironeye's smile. This master of Fray's sounded like he cared, at least. ]

Much was expected of both of us. Assassins are not family. Those who cannot produce results...

[ Well. He'd let the silence fill in the gaps there. ]

...I envy you.

[ The words came softly, though not with overwrought emotion or tears -- more a statement of simple fact. It must have been nice, even if Fray had to work hard. ]

[beaffrayed]

[ It was nice. He remembers his time spent with his mentor with fondness, with warmth. They were his children as much as his pupils.

Fray hesitates a scant moment, then moves forward to place a hand on Ironeye's shoulder in response. He squeezes, lightly, carefully. ]

...To be beloved sounds a heavy weight.

How did you come to it? As a youth, or full-grown?

[markingnight]

[ Something flickered in the assassin's eyes, yet he did not turn the gesture aside. One might even say he appreciated it. And yet, not unkindly: ]

Don't waste your sympathy on a sellsword, Fray. We are not knights. Our lives are bought in blood.

...In truth, I cannot remember a time before. Nor did I entertain the possibility of freedom. Only she was different.

[beaffrayed]

Different? How so?

[ That mention of a waste of sympathy gets a slight huff, though. ]

I've more in common with a sellsword than a knight. I was little more than a starving orphan plotting revenge, once. [ Those days seem far away now, given what he is. ]

And I'd not consider it a waste, to have sympathy for a friend.

[markingnight]

That --

[ Well, some things were beyond the control of man. In truth, even the title of 'friend' had a thorned double-meaning for Ironeye. Yet part of him longed for this, too. ]

What they desired, death, was only possible once the Nightlord was slain. To that end... once their children found our final usefulness, they were disposed of.

[ That was what it meant to be beloved, a scion of the feared Fellowship. To be hunted by one's own kind. ]

Her dream was one in which the Night was not ended. In which we would battle on, endlessly.

...A traitorous ambition, as you can imagine.

[beaffrayed]

I can. To me, it sounds as if there's little choice, no matter which way you go...

[ Perhaps if he'd pursued similar, he'd feel differently. But it seems a poor thing to be caught between, from where he stands.

He doesn't lift his hand from Ironeye's shoulder, nor does he relent on that implicit offer of friendship. ]

...but then, what matters is different when you're dead, aye? Maybe endless battle's worth it for some, though I can't say I'd be one of them.

[ He had always fiercely pushed the Warrior to the opposite; to rest, to let go. (To let him take the reins, to fight on in their stead...) ]

[markingnight]

[ Ironeye regarded Fray for a moment, and for that short span, it seemed as though he had decided to say nothing at all. Then he reached out and placed a gloved hand on Fray's shoulder in turn. ]

Friends, then. Comrades. I shall not try to dissuade you in this matter again. I see now that you are far too stubborn.

[ There was a bit of a wry edge to his words, and yet he meant them quite clearly. ]

To stand and fight at the side of one you can trust... it is a privilege.

[beaffrayed]

Hah! I'll not refute you in that. [ His voice is sharply amused. The message is quite clear; you're stuck with me.

He does tilt his head a little at those next words, though. ]

Not a privilege you've had much of over the years, I'd wager, what with... [ Sort of gestures with his free hand, the Everything. ]

[markingnight]

It's true. [ At least, he thought it was true. The memory began to evaporate, fading, like the ghost of the woman he had once called his master. Now that it was disappearing, the underwater filaments, delicate as the arms of an underground creature, could be seen at the assassin's sides, binding him.

An honest admission. To the Ironeye, this was love -- or at least one form of it. Whether they crossed swords or stood together, ever constant. ]

But for the time I spent with my fellow Condemned, I cannot recall when I so enjoyed it.

[beaffrayed]

It sounds a grueling life.

[ At least he'd had his mentor. At least he'd had Sid, right until the end...and then past it, it was impossible to be alone, even if he'd wanted to be.

The memory fragments, scattering like snow, revealing a filament twined around Fray's arm; its tendrils firmly tangled with the other man's bindings. In the whirling remnants of it come the scraps of a conversation - Fray's reminiscence, not Ironeye's:

"Why conjury, of all things?“ Sidurgu's voice is puzzled, slightly taut.
“You keep coming back hurt -- who else but me to make you whole again?” Fray's voice is no-nonsense, exasperated - but fond. ]

It soothes me, to know you at least had one another to care for. [ That there were others to care for Ironeye. ] It's a privilege, aye, but it's strength as well. It's bloody hard to stand alone and carry the burden all yourself.

[markingnight]

[ Fray and his partner in crime. As the filaments broke apart, Ironeye shook his head in amused exasperation. Now magic to heal his allies? ]

Were you always thus? You may say you've more in common with my kind, but I'd say you're more mother hen than mercenary.

[ Time to start raising some chicks. 🐔🐣🐤 ]

[beaffrayed]

[ That earns a sputtering, indignant sort of half-laugh. Guilty as charged though.... ]

Isn't it good practice to keep your comrades alive? That way, you need not look for new ones.

[markingnight]

Providing you're partial to your old ones. [ Huehuehue. ]

Have you never thought of taking on more students, as your master did? You've only spoken about one, I believe.

[beaffrayed]

[ CMON MAN,] Isn't being partial to them the ideal? No need to train them anew...

[ He does make a thoughtful noise at Ironeye's suggestion, though. ]
What, here? I could, likely. [ Before his death, he'd taught Rielle conjury, after all. ] If I found others of the right temperament. It's not a path to be walked lightly.

[markingnight]

[ Ah. ]

Doesn't have to be as a dark knight in particular. Your master had an effect on your life beyond that, did he not?

[ For a pair(?) of orphan children, it surely made an outsized difference. Too easy to end up caught as a thief, or worse. ]

[beaffrayed]

[ It had, it had. Ser Ompagne had caught him plotting revenge for a dead friend, after all. Even at a young age, that anger had burned fiercely in him.

That startles another little laugh out of Fray. ]

As a mentor? Well - maybe. Though the younger among us here seem an independent sort. Might not take too kindly to another's guidance. [ He'll worry and fuss, but he won't press...that much. ]

hey you wanna do seeing the other person stuff in the cathedral

[markingnight]

[ Almost imperceptibly, it seemed that Ironeye had begun to rise through the water, in dreamlike fashion -- toward some sense of light above. Let that not stop him from teasing Fray just a little more, though. ]

Know that from experience, do you? Did one of your chicks start piping in protest?

hell yeah let's do it

[beaffrayed]

Aye, well. I had some differences of opinion with my most recent of students, let's say. [ His voice is wry; exasperated and amused, as if he's privy to some joke that he's not sharing.

Both of them are freed from the filaments weighing them down, it seems. They're transformed into something that pushes them upward towards a surface, rather than down into the depths.

Of course, breaching that surface isn't a simple matter. A startling crack as the world shatters around them, the dream seeming to choke and stutter in hesitance before it undoes the knot in its throat, spits them both out in a cascade of water and glass shards. Fray's cursing is nearly lost in the cacophony as the dream flips itself near inside-out to dislodge them. ]

[markingnight]

[ Lifted up, only to somehow hurtle downwards? Sure, that made sense. Yet during the fall, something in the air currents seemed to change; to Ironeye, it felt like his old sense of light-footedness, the Nightfarer's grace. He reached out for Fray to land them both sensibly on their feet.

But... ah. Upward now was St. Patrick's, now writ impossibly huge. Light from above, illuminating the ground in a chaos of colors. Far more cavernous than the cathedral he was familiar with from Manhattan. ]

Does this place have some significance? I thought it merely a house of worship convenient for their profanement.

[beaffrayed]

[ Oop! With Ironeye's help, Fray lands in a more graceful way than he would have otherwise. It's something he appreciates.

He glances around at the cathedral, unable to suppress a sharp spike of irritation; it reminds him too much of Ishgard's vaulted ceilings. ]

I've not studied enough to know the history of this city...learning to read its script is hard enough.

Could be that it's just a matter of taking and twisting what her worshippers have already bled all over. I'll not claim to know what a god thinks.

[markingnight]

Shall I recommend you to a most excellent tutor? [ The Ironeye's voice had a touch of amusement to it.

It was impossible not to be drawn in some way to the light, which seemed to have a shimmering quality that seemed appropriate to a dream. Tentatively, he put out a hand into it. ]

Miss Mafuyu was kind enough to volunteer her services in deciphering an... inconsistent language.

[beaffrayed]

Mafuyu, eh? I'll have to seek her out, if she comes so recommended.

[ He glances at the light; he's not so drawn to it, but there's a quality to it that makes him curious. And he'll admit, he wants to see how it interacts with him.

He goes a little further and steps into the light shining down from the vast windows, looking up at the glass. While it feels odd and warm on him, it doesn't seem to be doing anything... ]

Makes me wonder what a god of sleep would want with something so much like sunlight. The moon's more suited to her, isn't it?

[markingnight]

[ Ironeye did a visible double take. ]

I knew you were growing wings, but isn't the beak a bit much? [ This had to be some form of glamour, as in those trick sorceries where one changed their appearance. ] At this rate, you really might end up a bird.

[ Fray had somehow become taller, stouter, and... inexplicably, something between himself and one of Ironeye's old comrades. Feathers poked out of his armor, giving him a bit more fierce of an appearance. ]