![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
HIGHER β MARCH 2026 EVENT/TDM
TDM & EVENT: HIGHER
α
Prologue: New Characters
You sleep, and the dream returns— everyday, if you're amongst the living. Repeating as an endless limbo, if you find yourself amongst the fallen. It always begins the very same way: Silence so heavy it gnaws at your bones. A ripple moves through your nerves and shivers the flooding water pooling at your heels. A tide builds, familiar now. Black, soundless, thick like oil and starlight swelling across the horizon line you dream of.
You've seen the wave before, always rising higher than the last time you saw it. With every night, it never reaches you, but it gets close. You always seem to wake before it crashes . . . That is, until tonight.
The wave is fast tonight, like something predatory after quick-footed prey. When it finally crashes from the height of two skyscrapers stacked upon each other, you are being taken with saltwater that stings, and a suffocating pressure upon you that feels like your chest is caving, that something is choking you. As it pulls you into its depths, Sleep's voice is immediate and invasive, laced with palpable irritation and a demanding authority:
"You would leave Me?
After all I have given?
After all we have been through?
Return,
For Me
Give Me everything."
In that harrowing moment, before you can scream or even object through the foam and endless ocean whirls, something profound is taken from you— a fleeting spark of your past self is your entry fee into Sleep's playground. You aren't granted ascent by her claim, given something forcefully wedged into your vitae and yanked into the deeper dreamscape by Her aggressive will.
You've seen the wave before, always rising higher than the last time you saw it. With every night, it never reaches you, but it gets close. You always seem to wake before it crashes . . . That is, until tonight.
The wave is fast tonight, like something predatory after quick-footed prey. When it finally crashes from the height of two skyscrapers stacked upon each other, you are being taken with saltwater that stings, and a suffocating pressure upon you that feels like your chest is caving, that something is choking you. As it pulls you into its depths, Sleep's voice is immediate and invasive, laced with palpable irritation and a demanding authority:
In that harrowing moment, before you can scream or even object through the foam and endless ocean whirls, something profound is taken from you— a fleeting spark of your past self is your entry fee into Sleep's playground. You aren't granted ascent by her claim, given something forcefully wedged into your vitae and yanked into the deeper dreamscape by Her aggressive will.
α
You Won't Begin Again
All Vessels awaken within a ceremonial city at the foot of an impossibly tall tower.
Stone keeps and vaulted bridges rise in medieval splendor, their silhouettes broken by glowing seams of sigil-light that run like circuitry through the masonry. Banners flag overhead like a welcoming hallway, embroidered with symbols that shift when not directly observed. Lanterns float without flame and faceless children guffaw past your legs. It seems a festival is in full bloom, loud and jubilant, yet the fun loving beats and strumming lutes carry a hollow echo, as if the seemingly lively village is rehearsing joy rather than truly feeling it.
As the dream settles, you may find yourself within a role, imposed based on what you are.
Offerings may notice they are suddenly clad in armor despite any bodily changes, now Cavaliers. Steel shapes itself to their bodies perfectly, colored and etched according to who they are as a person. Weapons rest easily in their hands, chosen without conscious thought and feeling right in their palms, be it the hilt of an axe, rapier, spear or so on. Their posture is straight, and service feels instinctive to them now. Obedience will hum warmly beneath their flesh, begging to be used, but their monstrous instinct lay intact, snarling under the metal and anxious, anticipating the chaos that's soon to come.
Tokens, on the other hand, rise as Nobles. Fine fabrics drape their forms while crowns, circlets, and cold jewels press against the throat, head and fingers that are designed as perfect conduits for their sorcery. Authority will radiate from them, subtle but undeniable. When they speak, many, especially Cavaliers, will be urged to listen intently from within the very marrow of their bones. They are strong, commanding beings, and their magic sparks hot at their fingertips— ready for what could possibly be waiting for them.
Each Cavalier is highly sensitive to finding and being sworn to a noble. Some bonds are chosen between a pair immediately, familiarity calling to them like loud sirens. Others may snap into place without your proper knowledge, toward strangers you might feel comfortable with despite only sharing eye contact. Or, perhaps you bond through sheer spite. A luminous bond stretches between them either way, tight as a drawn wire through the chest and alive with currents. Whoever you find, you are now Tethered.
Best prepare yourself. Find your weapon of choice, as well as your partner. Feast, if you'd like. The problem might only be that most of what is offered in festive food stalls are . . . Tadpoles? But you won't try to eat it, will you?
NOTES:
Stone keeps and vaulted bridges rise in medieval splendor, their silhouettes broken by glowing seams of sigil-light that run like circuitry through the masonry. Banners flag overhead like a welcoming hallway, embroidered with symbols that shift when not directly observed. Lanterns float without flame and faceless children guffaw past your legs. It seems a festival is in full bloom, loud and jubilant, yet the fun loving beats and strumming lutes carry a hollow echo, as if the seemingly lively village is rehearsing joy rather than truly feeling it.
As the dream settles, you may find yourself within a role, imposed based on what you are.
Offerings may notice they are suddenly clad in armor despite any bodily changes, now Cavaliers. Steel shapes itself to their bodies perfectly, colored and etched according to who they are as a person. Weapons rest easily in their hands, chosen without conscious thought and feeling right in their palms, be it the hilt of an axe, rapier, spear or so on. Their posture is straight, and service feels instinctive to them now. Obedience will hum warmly beneath their flesh, begging to be used, but their monstrous instinct lay intact, snarling under the metal and anxious, anticipating the chaos that's soon to come.
Tokens, on the other hand, rise as Nobles. Fine fabrics drape their forms while crowns, circlets, and cold jewels press against the throat, head and fingers that are designed as perfect conduits for their sorcery. Authority will radiate from them, subtle but undeniable. When they speak, many, especially Cavaliers, will be urged to listen intently from within the very marrow of their bones. They are strong, commanding beings, and their magic sparks hot at their fingertips— ready for what could possibly be waiting for them.
Each Cavalier is highly sensitive to finding and being sworn to a noble. Some bonds are chosen between a pair immediately, familiarity calling to them like loud sirens. Others may snap into place without your proper knowledge, toward strangers you might feel comfortable with despite only sharing eye contact. Or, perhaps you bond through sheer spite. A luminous bond stretches between them either way, tight as a drawn wire through the chest and alive with currents. Whoever you find, you are now Tethered.
Best prepare yourself. Find your weapon of choice, as well as your partner. Feast, if you'd like. The problem might only be that most of what is offered in festive food stalls are . . . Tadpoles? But you won't try to eat it, will you?
NOTES:
β’ Nightmares will accompany old and new vessels during the introductory prompt and during the collapse of the dream by the end of the event only. They will not be able to participate in the games themselves, but it will be their introduction to new vessels, and veteran vessels will be able to awaken during next month's event with their Nightmares final form, should they wish.
β’ The dream vessel NPCs all wear masks and will range from adult, to elderly to child. They will act as shadows of real people and will interact with characters only if prompted. There is something wrong with them though, they seem . . . Too happy, and are very bad at giving directions that don't sound like Sleep propoganda.
β’ A Cavalier may Tether to more than one Noble and vice-versa, given the nature of a dream and how time interacts with space. Many possibilities may happen at the same time.
β’ If you decide to eat a tadpole, you will get a random effect assigned by the Mod that may persist for however long you wish. Please comment to the proper top level for your effect.
α
Capitulate And Let Me In
( Enforced hierarchy and obedience, psychological manipulation, invasive presence, sensory distortion, environmental horror, body horror, parasitic threat, implied loss of agency and self, forced loyalty, competitive paranoia, betrayal under pressure, dream-incineration, altered resurrection, implied and direct violence )
Eventually, the festival funnels inward, streets narrowing until they open into a colossal coliseum. At its center rises the tower, segmented into ascending levels that vanish into a sky of bruised violet and scarlet hues. The stands are packed with faceless dream-vessels, clapping and roaring in perfect unison.
Massive holograph-like images ignite around the arena, abruptly even. Sleep appears across them, crowned and queenlike and difficult to look upon without feeling like you're going a bit mad, vast and shadowed, her silhouette draped in ceremonial finery that moves as if alive. Free and at her side is the king, One, his crown tarnished, his posture broken, and a faint discord humming from him. Above them hangs a gilded cage, imprisoning the Espera, three songbird muses with torn wings. They look positively riled.
Sleep welcomes you through the Murmur.
"The games may now begin."
She demands loyalty made visible. Devotion proven through action. She looks down upon each and every Vessel at her misty feet and dusts the earth with a sweep of her pitch black wisps— and stops at two striking individuals, her six eyes narrowing until the glare lasers the distinct red glowing from them. At the arena's edge stand two masked anomalies: The numeral Two, dressed as a Noble yet watching the tower rather than Sleep. At his side, the numeral Three, a jester-knight whose bells chime softly, defiant by nature. Three is openly mocking and provoking Her by raising his arms behind his neck to stretch— while both middle fingers pop out of his fist. Two smacks the other's stomach to get his attention— pointing upward to the tower. His indifference bothers the diety most of all, and that very distaste reverberates through every Vessel to the point that the edge to her snarl is palpable. She smooths out, drags a claw down One's face, and commands, as if to show them all who this body belongs to:
"Sing from the heart, My Love."
And so, he begins to sing like an angel trapped in his own prison. The coliseum floor splits open to his harmony, and she bids you all the wealthiest of luck. Worship.
This is the first level of Sleep's proving ground. Pairs are cast upward into a vast, ever-shifting labyrinth woven of stone, light, gnarled flora and living sigils. Walls crawl and rearrange themselves. Floors slide, tilt, and dissolve. Gothic arches loom overhead, studded with crystalline lenses that track movement like watchful eyes. Your objective is an easy one: Reach the labyrinth's exit— presumably its flowered garden center, alive. Two and Three already break for it, calculating and determined, and it may be best you follow their lead.
It would be quite easy if there wasn't an eerie countdown that occassionally flashes cross your vision. What's worse— one of the colesium dungeons yawn wide open, and something slithers out.
It moves like a nightmare perfectly refined for pursuit. Sleek, towering, and insectile, its obsidian body reflects no light. A ridged skull stretches back without eyes, yet it sees everything. Acidic saliva hisses as it drips, eating into stone and armor alike. Its tail coils and lashes with deliberate cruelty. It crawls across walls, impossible gaps, and moves with predatory patience rather than haste. The Cleric has been released to hunt you for sport. If you haven't already— best make a run for it. The creature even gives you a torturous head start to allow her time to drool over your scents, your heartbeats, and your fear.
Scattered throughout the maze are sealed chests bound in iron and runes. Some contain relics, sigil-keys, or volatile artifacts capable of bending a single wall in the labyrinth, sealing passages, or accelerating movement. Others rupture into traps, releasing lesser horrors, creatures or environmental hazards that draw the creature closer.
The closer the countdown gets to zero, the more the walls begin to glow, and the temperature, elevate.
The entire level is preparing to be incinerated.
Reaching the labyrinth's center reveals a grand chamber that appears to be the exit. It is not. Those who work together, using their altered perceptions, may realize the true path upward lies elsewhere, hidden along the labyrinth's unstable outer seams.
Those who complete the goal and ascend rise higher within the tower, while those who fail are consumed by painful dreamfire— But they are not gone. They return on the next level, altered by Sleep's influence, their loyalty sharpened, their doubt dulled. Their presence becomes heavier in the Tether(s) they have, making cooperation more difficult, and trust more dangerous.
NOTES:
Eventually, the festival funnels inward, streets narrowing until they open into a colossal coliseum. At its center rises the tower, segmented into ascending levels that vanish into a sky of bruised violet and scarlet hues. The stands are packed with faceless dream-vessels, clapping and roaring in perfect unison.
Massive holograph-like images ignite around the arena, abruptly even. Sleep appears across them, crowned and queenlike and difficult to look upon without feeling like you're going a bit mad, vast and shadowed, her silhouette draped in ceremonial finery that moves as if alive. Free and at her side is the king, One, his crown tarnished, his posture broken, and a faint discord humming from him. Above them hangs a gilded cage, imprisoning the Espera, three songbird muses with torn wings. They look positively riled.
Sleep welcomes you through the Murmur.
She demands loyalty made visible. Devotion proven through action. She looks down upon each and every Vessel at her misty feet and dusts the earth with a sweep of her pitch black wisps— and stops at two striking individuals, her six eyes narrowing until the glare lasers the distinct red glowing from them. At the arena's edge stand two masked anomalies: The numeral Two, dressed as a Noble yet watching the tower rather than Sleep. At his side, the numeral Three, a jester-knight whose bells chime softly, defiant by nature. Three is openly mocking and provoking Her by raising his arms behind his neck to stretch— while both middle fingers pop out of his fist. Two smacks the other's stomach to get his attention— pointing upward to the tower. His indifference bothers the diety most of all, and that very distaste reverberates through every Vessel to the point that the edge to her snarl is palpable. She smooths out, drags a claw down One's face, and commands, as if to show them all who this body belongs to:
And so, he begins to sing like an angel trapped in his own prison. The coliseum floor splits open to his harmony, and she bids you all the wealthiest of luck. Worship.
This is the first level of Sleep's proving ground. Pairs are cast upward into a vast, ever-shifting labyrinth woven of stone, light, gnarled flora and living sigils. Walls crawl and rearrange themselves. Floors slide, tilt, and dissolve. Gothic arches loom overhead, studded with crystalline lenses that track movement like watchful eyes. Your objective is an easy one: Reach the labyrinth's exit— presumably its flowered garden center, alive. Two and Three already break for it, calculating and determined, and it may be best you follow their lead.
It would be quite easy if there wasn't an eerie countdown that occassionally flashes cross your vision. What's worse— one of the colesium dungeons yawn wide open, and something slithers out.
It moves like a nightmare perfectly refined for pursuit. Sleek, towering, and insectile, its obsidian body reflects no light. A ridged skull stretches back without eyes, yet it sees everything. Acidic saliva hisses as it drips, eating into stone and armor alike. Its tail coils and lashes with deliberate cruelty. It crawls across walls, impossible gaps, and moves with predatory patience rather than haste. The Cleric has been released to hunt you for sport. If you haven't already— best make a run for it. The creature even gives you a torturous head start to allow her time to drool over your scents, your heartbeats, and your fear.
Scattered throughout the maze are sealed chests bound in iron and runes. Some contain relics, sigil-keys, or volatile artifacts capable of bending a single wall in the labyrinth, sealing passages, or accelerating movement. Others rupture into traps, releasing lesser horrors, creatures or environmental hazards that draw the creature closer.
The closer the countdown gets to zero, the more the walls begin to glow, and the temperature, elevate.
The entire level is preparing to be incinerated.
Reaching the labyrinth's center reveals a grand chamber that appears to be the exit. It is not. Those who work together, using their altered perceptions, may realize the true path upward lies elsewhere, hidden along the labyrinth's unstable outer seams.
Those who complete the goal and ascend rise higher within the tower, while those who fail are consumed by painful dreamfire— But they are not gone. They return on the next level, altered by Sleep's influence, their loyalty sharpened, their doubt dulled. Their presence becomes heavier in the Tether(s) they have, making cooperation more difficult, and trust more dangerous.
NOTES:
β’ A towering flower, its petals made of solidified light, shimmers through the cracks of the labryinth and wraps around its architecture. Touching it reveals it to be unnervingly soft, like velvet, but it leaves a tingling, almost painful residue on your skin. The air around it smells sweet and intoxicating, but breathing it in makes you feel strangely disoriented.TOKEN EFFECTS:
β’ As you listen closely to the haunting melody, you can almost hear a faint, struggling note buried deep within it— a desperate, familiar sound trying to break free. It's the echo of One, a faint, lost piece of sanity. Focusing on it briefly clarifies your thoughts, but also makes the beautiful melody feel grating and painful.
β’ The Cleric is based heavily on the Xenomorph, while the creatures hidden in negative chests are heavily based off of Hammerpedes.
β’ For the duration of the dream, Tokens will be able to see shades of scarlet with exaggerated clarity. In the labryinth, there will be small, scarlet arrows hidden in corners or under flora, that may signal the correct path.OFFERING EFFECTS:
β’ For an act of magical violence in Sleep's name, a Token's connection to the dreamscape intensifies. The light constructs and shimmering flora will work in their favor, creating a small, stable platform for themselves or a minor illusion to distract another Vessel. They will feel a rush of power and their own dream-magic will feel more direct and forceful.
β’ A Token who uses their magic for an act of bravery or protection will receive a blessing from the Numerals. They gain a moment of profound clarity, allowing them to see through the deceptive illusions of the tower. They may feel a hand on their shoulder, or the cackle of a cockatoo, or the quick stepping afterimage of a white fox leading the way to the true exit. They can perceive the true, broken nature of the collapsing level and can sense the most stable path forward for themselves and a nearby ally.
β’ For the duration of the event, Offerings will be able to see in ultraviolet. In the labryinth, there will be small, ultraviolet X marks hidden in corners or under flora that may signal danger or dead ends.
β’ For an act of physical violence in Sleep's name, a Monster's dream-form transforms to become more predatory and efficient. They might feel a surge of primal energy, their claws or teeth could extend, or their senses could sharpen, giving them an advantage in navigating the treacherous, shifting ground and engaging in conflict.
β’ An Offering who performs an act of bravery or kindness receives a blessing from the Numerals. Their predatory instincts are momentarily suppressed, replaced by a feeling of profound peace. Their dream-form may either feel momentarily less monstrous or pliant to their wants, and they may gain a fleeting sense of empathy or connection to another Vessel, which feels both comforting and deeply alien.
α
'Cause I Am A Danger
( psychological manipulation, violence, religious corruption, moral inversion, enforced separation, sustained tether, self loss, time pressure, disorientation, coerced sacrifice, self harm )
Whether you win or lose, you are ripped from the last level without ceremony, unseen forces yanking you upward like a hooked spine. Your Tethers do not snap, nor loosen, but stretches so suddenly it steals the breath from your lungs. Whatever bound you to your partner still exists. You can feel it. A constant pull behind the ribs, a phantom pressure in the sternum, all tight enough to ache with longing.
Then you land.
Cold, endless corridores, spiral staircases twirling into themselves at angles that should never meet. Doors line the walls in obscene abundance, carved wood, iron, bone, and glass. The air is thin and metallic. One's song is gone. In its place, a frantic ringing invades your eardrums. Not a bell. A broken chime. Metallic, irregular, panicked. A countdown flashes across your vision, unasked for and impossible to ignore, one more time: Ten minutes.
Ten minutes before this level folds in on itself and grinds everything inside into memoryless ruin. It is only a dream. You know this. The thought does nothing to calm the way your heart kicks against your ribs anyway. Sleep does not speak. She does not need to. She instead, suggests the thought: Violence was too easy. Too honest. What she wants now is desecration. To see what goodness looks like when it is cornered. What devotion looks like when it costs something you were sure you would never give. And thus, you are all divided.
Some of you will awaken with a blade in your hand. It is wrong in every way that matters: Pale. Ethereal. Its surface ripples as if water has been touched. Holding it makes your tethers hum louder, sharper, like a nerve being plucked. In this case, you are a Seeker. Sleep knows hesitation cuts deeper when forced to act. An itch crawls up your spine. A hunger blooms that does not belong to you. The blade wants movement. Wants marking. Wants flesh. Somewhere in this second, closed maze is another Vessel, and you are being pulled toward them whether you wish it or not.
The rest of you wake unarmed. around your neck rests a key. Cold. Heavy. Incomplete. You are the Hiders. If you were once predators, you are now stripped of that comfort; Violence will not save you here. Before you stretches an upward spiral of corridors branching endlessly into doors. Hundreds. Thousands. Most are lies. Some will return you to the maze, while others will trap you. Only very few of them ascend to safety. Higher.
There is no fighting your way out; Only running, evading, and thinking.
Your tether drags at you constantly. You can feel your partner(s) somewhere in this place, distant but unmistakable. Fear bleeds across it. Urgency. Hunger. You do not know what role they have been given. You can only feel that they are moving.
Luckily, a voice cuts through the Murmur— Laughing, breathless. Bright with panic and delight all at once.
"Hey there, Noodles, long and short! Hahah—" Perhaps you know him, cackling and bright. He is running when he speaks, you can hear it in the way his voice bounces, in the way he cuts himself off mid sentence to swear. He is not above you. He is inside this with you. "Oh, this is good," he says, almost giddy. "Gods, this is good. Hide and Seek, my friends."
"Games are my thing. Keys," he adds, sharper now, no more preamble. "Not one. Two. I have one. Its wrong, I can feel it— You need a pair. Matching. You need the right person, not just the right door." His voice drops, just a little. "And I think . . . Some of you are hunting the ones you're bound to. Just— Fight back if you can. Don't take it personally if you can't. We can fuck Her up aaaaall we want after, yeah? I'll see you in the skies above."
The connection tightens painfully, and just as quick he is gone.
Seekers feel it spike when they draw close to anyone. The blade sings louder, eager, making no distinction between stranger and partner. Hiders feel the pull and mistake it for pursuit, terror flooding tethers in hot waves. Recognition becomes dangerous, and reunion may become worse, or infinitely better.
Those who find each other and bring the correct pair of keys together feel the tower shudder in reluctant approval. Stone grinds open. Light pours upward. Ascension to the next level follows. Those who fail are not spared— The corridors collapse inward when the timer hits zero, crushing memory and certainty alike. You are shunted forward regardless, marked once more for inaction or weakness. Something breaks in you this time. A name. A voice. A face that no longer feels like yours. Yet, the tether remains. It always will.
NOTES:
TOKEN EFFECTS:
Whether you win or lose, you are ripped from the last level without ceremony, unseen forces yanking you upward like a hooked spine. Your Tethers do not snap, nor loosen, but stretches so suddenly it steals the breath from your lungs. Whatever bound you to your partner still exists. You can feel it. A constant pull behind the ribs, a phantom pressure in the sternum, all tight enough to ache with longing.
Then you land.
Cold, endless corridores, spiral staircases twirling into themselves at angles that should never meet. Doors line the walls in obscene abundance, carved wood, iron, bone, and glass. The air is thin and metallic. One's song is gone. In its place, a frantic ringing invades your eardrums. Not a bell. A broken chime. Metallic, irregular, panicked. A countdown flashes across your vision, unasked for and impossible to ignore, one more time: Ten minutes.
Ten minutes before this level folds in on itself and grinds everything inside into memoryless ruin. It is only a dream. You know this. The thought does nothing to calm the way your heart kicks against your ribs anyway. Sleep does not speak. She does not need to. She instead, suggests the thought: Violence was too easy. Too honest. What she wants now is desecration. To see what goodness looks like when it is cornered. What devotion looks like when it costs something you were sure you would never give. And thus, you are all divided.
Some of you will awaken with a blade in your hand. It is wrong in every way that matters: Pale. Ethereal. Its surface ripples as if water has been touched. Holding it makes your tethers hum louder, sharper, like a nerve being plucked. In this case, you are a Seeker. Sleep knows hesitation cuts deeper when forced to act. An itch crawls up your spine. A hunger blooms that does not belong to you. The blade wants movement. Wants marking. Wants flesh. Somewhere in this second, closed maze is another Vessel, and you are being pulled toward them whether you wish it or not.
The rest of you wake unarmed. around your neck rests a key. Cold. Heavy. Incomplete. You are the Hiders. If you were once predators, you are now stripped of that comfort; Violence will not save you here. Before you stretches an upward spiral of corridors branching endlessly into doors. Hundreds. Thousands. Most are lies. Some will return you to the maze, while others will trap you. Only very few of them ascend to safety. Higher.
There is no fighting your way out; Only running, evading, and thinking.
Your tether drags at you constantly. You can feel your partner(s) somewhere in this place, distant but unmistakable. Fear bleeds across it. Urgency. Hunger. You do not know what role they have been given. You can only feel that they are moving.
Luckily, a voice cuts through the Murmur— Laughing, breathless. Bright with panic and delight all at once.
"Hey there, Noodles, long and short! Hahah—" Perhaps you know him, cackling and bright. He is running when he speaks, you can hear it in the way his voice bounces, in the way he cuts himself off mid sentence to swear. He is not above you. He is inside this with you. "Oh, this is good," he says, almost giddy. "Gods, this is good. Hide and Seek, my friends."
"Games are my thing. Keys," he adds, sharper now, no more preamble. "Not one. Two. I have one. Its wrong, I can feel it— You need a pair. Matching. You need the right person, not just the right door." His voice drops, just a little. "And I think . . . Some of you are hunting the ones you're bound to. Just— Fight back if you can. Don't take it personally if you can't. We can fuck Her up aaaaall we want after, yeah? I'll see you in the skies above."
The connection tightens painfully, and just as quick he is gone.
Seekers feel it spike when they draw close to anyone. The blade sings louder, eager, making no distinction between stranger and partner. Hiders feel the pull and mistake it for pursuit, terror flooding tethers in hot waves. Recognition becomes dangerous, and reunion may become worse, or infinitely better.
Those who find each other and bring the correct pair of keys together feel the tower shudder in reluctant approval. Stone grinds open. Light pours upward. Ascension to the next level follows. Those who fail are not spared— The corridors collapse inward when the timer hits zero, crushing memory and certainty alike. You are shunted forward regardless, marked once more for inaction or weakness. Something breaks in you this time. A name. A voice. A face that no longer feels like yours. Yet, the tether remains. It always will.
NOTES:
β’ The tether constantly transmits emotion rather than location. Fear, hunger, hesitation, relief. Misreading it is easy and often fatal.
β’ It is up to you whether you want your character to be a Hider or Seeker, but do note Sleep is more likely to target those who would have more difficulty being a Seeker than not. β’ Keys feel wrong when held alone. When the correct pair is brought close, they resonate painfully through the chest.
TOKEN EFFECTS:
β’ If you are a Seeker, violence offered to Sleep in this level alters your casting. Your magic becomes invasive and intimate, blurring hallucination and pain. Illusions may leave lasting psychological scars. Mental bindings whisper guilt, fear, and belief into those caught within them. Her voice never fully leaves your spells afterward, not even in the Waking World.OFFERING EFFECTS:
β’ If you are a Hider, resisting the hunt calls the Numerals fully to your side. Their blessing manifests as a soundless barrier of radiant inversion, rendering you invisible to any Vessel influenced by Sleep for 60 seconds. You may pass through them untouched for a short time.
β’ If you are a Seeker, violence offered to Sleep stretches your form. Teeth lengthen. Blood shimmers like quicksilver. You gain scent tracking keyed to emotion: fear, hesitation, remorse, glowing through stone like veins. You may look more monstrous than ever before.
β’ If you are a Hider, resisting the hunt calls the Numerals to you. Your monstrous form stills, collapsing into statuesque silence. For a breath, you may phase through walls unseen. When your body returns, something in it is more human than before.
α
The Debt That I Owe
( content warnings: dream manipulation, interpersonal violence, enforced rivalry, divine possession, emotional coercion, collapse imagery )
The tower opens at its crown and spills you into the highest place it possesses: a broken, hovering summit where stone hangs suspended in defiance of gravity and light bleeds upward into nothing. There is no sky. No horizon. Only height, pressure, and the sense that there is nowhere left to run.
Sleep waits at the center. She is vast here, coiled in shadow and brilliance, her presence compressing thought and breath alike. One is held upon a pyre above like an offering already half spent, his light unraveling into her in slow, shimmering strands. The Espera hang trapped and trembling, their voices reduced to a thin, strangled vibration in the air.
This is the summit, and what the tower was for. Sleep does not address you. She does not need to. The meaning settles into your chest fully formed: there will be no united stand. No singular enemy. What remains to be proven now is devotion, and devotion is always clearest when it is tested against someone else.
The ground shifts, lines burn into the stone beneath your feet as bonds are dragged into place. Tethers tighten, snapping nobles toward cavaliers, cavaliers toward nobles, sometimes to the ones you climbed beside, sometimes to strangers. Loyalty is not preserved and your history is not respected. The dream rearranges its pieces without the slightest apology.
"Don't give in, Three huffs within The Murmur, hushed and agile. "Just buy me and Two some time."
Once you are paired, you are then turned against each other. Armor hums, weapons manifest, magic stirs, sharp and unstable. You are meant to fight. The tether between you and your counterpart pulls hard enough to hurt, every movement echoed in the ribs, every intention felt like pressure beneath a sea of waves. Sleep does not ask you to reflect on what you owe— instead, She asks you to prove it.
You must pass through each other. Each tethered pair trapped within their own bubbles experience a shared vision— a personalized trial manifested from the debt that you owe. The dream uses your closeness like a wire, and lets the current burn. You may find yourselves:
As the fighting spreads, something fractures at the edge of the dream—Two tears into the summit behind Sleep, his presence glitching, wrong, bleeding interference into the structure of her domain. He does not hesitate. He throws himself toward One, reaching for him with everything he has left. The moment One sees him, yells behind the bind muffling his voice . . . Sleep turns. Her strike is immediate, corrective. A backlash that sends Two crashing hard across the stone, light scattering from him in broken arcs. He does not rise. One panics, Sleep approaches—
Then laughter cuts through the collapse: Bright, breathless and unafraid. Three is already running when you notice him, all three tails flagging from fox to snow white wings, his voice ringing wild through the open space as fireworks detonate along the tower's spine. The Espera's cage shudders, chains tearing free as the summit begins to give way. She, they, flutter to the downed Numeral, and in a jolt from her touch, Two stirs—
As the tower starts to fall, Sleep's focus splinters. Her hold on One falters as the structure buckles inward, the dream tearing itself apart from the top down; Two releases One, signs something, and tackles him out from the tower's balcony with him. Wake up, Two's urgency chimes. Wake up, One.
As rubble collapses, as plumes of dust and gorgeous sparks of color pop off in every possible direction—
You wake.
The tower opens at its crown and spills you into the highest place it possesses: a broken, hovering summit where stone hangs suspended in defiance of gravity and light bleeds upward into nothing. There is no sky. No horizon. Only height, pressure, and the sense that there is nowhere left to run.
Sleep waits at the center. She is vast here, coiled in shadow and brilliance, her presence compressing thought and breath alike. One is held upon a pyre above like an offering already half spent, his light unraveling into her in slow, shimmering strands. The Espera hang trapped and trembling, their voices reduced to a thin, strangled vibration in the air.
This is the summit, and what the tower was for. Sleep does not address you. She does not need to. The meaning settles into your chest fully formed: there will be no united stand. No singular enemy. What remains to be proven now is devotion, and devotion is always clearest when it is tested against someone else.
The ground shifts, lines burn into the stone beneath your feet as bonds are dragged into place. Tethers tighten, snapping nobles toward cavaliers, cavaliers toward nobles, sometimes to the ones you climbed beside, sometimes to strangers. Loyalty is not preserved and your history is not respected. The dream rearranges its pieces without the slightest apology.
"Don't give in, Three huffs within The Murmur, hushed and agile. "Just buy me and Two some time."
Once you are paired, you are then turned against each other. Armor hums, weapons manifest, magic stirs, sharp and unstable. You are meant to fight. The tether between you and your counterpart pulls hard enough to hurt, every movement echoed in the ribs, every intention felt like pressure beneath a sea of waves. Sleep does not ask you to reflect on what you owe— instead, She asks you to prove it.
You must pass through each other. Each tethered pair trapped within their own bubbles experience a shared vision— a personalized trial manifested from the debt that you owe. The dream uses your closeness like a wire, and lets the current burn. You may find yourselves:
Repay a Past Debt: You and your tethered partner are plunged into a distorted, dreamlike memory of a profound failure from your past. It's a moment you have tried to forget, a regret that has festered. The challenge is not to simply relive it, but to try and rewrite it, to make a different choice. However, the dream's reality is malleable, and the outcome may still feel like sand slipping through your fingers, leaving you to decide if your struggle is a final act of defiance or a futile attempt to change a history that is already written.
Demand a Payment: This trial manifests as a symbolic space between you and your partner. The dream-space represents a debt one of you owes the other as well, but in a different light, something taken without thanks, a betrayal, or a loyalty never reciprocated. To climb higher, you must demand a payment. Your choice is in how you collect: you can force them to face a painful truth, take a piece of them, or you can . . .
Embrace the Fury: The dream-within-a-dream becomes a surreal arena as a manifestation of pure conflict. You and your partner are pitted against each other, tethered by an inescapable chain of emotion and intention. This trial is meant to push you into a brutal battle for dominance, a physical expression of the "blood and the fury" that has brought you to this point. The victor is the one who forces the other into silence, but you must decide how you will fight: will you let the rage guide your hands, or will you try to find forgiveness and a peaceful resolution in a place where only violence is expected?
As the fighting spreads, something fractures at the edge of the dream—Two tears into the summit behind Sleep, his presence glitching, wrong, bleeding interference into the structure of her domain. He does not hesitate. He throws himself toward One, reaching for him with everything he has left. The moment One sees him, yells behind the bind muffling his voice . . . Sleep turns. Her strike is immediate, corrective. A backlash that sends Two crashing hard across the stone, light scattering from him in broken arcs. He does not rise. One panics, Sleep approaches—
Then laughter cuts through the collapse: Bright, breathless and unafraid. Three is already running when you notice him, all three tails flagging from fox to snow white wings, his voice ringing wild through the open space as fireworks detonate along the tower's spine. The Espera's cage shudders, chains tearing free as the summit begins to give way. She, they, flutter to the downed Numeral, and in a jolt from her touch, Two stirs—
As the tower starts to fall, Sleep's focus splinters. Her hold on One falters as the structure buckles inward, the dream tearing itself apart from the top down; Two releases One, signs something, and tackles him out from the tower's balcony with him. Wake up, Two's urgency chimes. Wake up, One.
As rubble collapses, as plumes of dust and gorgeous sparks of color pop off in every possible direction—
You wake.
αNOTES
β€ Welcome to Somnia's TDM, which doubles as a gamewide event!
β€ This TDM is considered game canon.
β€ 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.
β€ All TDMs take place within a dreamscape, meaning characters can interact with the setting without needing to apply. Come have fun with us!
β€ Questions? Please direct them to the designated questions comment linked below!
β€ This TDM is considered game canon.
β€ 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.
β€ All TDMs take place within a dreamscape, meaning characters can interact with the setting without needing to apply. Come have fun with us!
β€ Questions? Please direct them to the designated questions comment linked below!
no subject
That's when Ivan's big shoulders shrug off his hands, not because he's resisting his role but because the situation now calls for him to perform it another way, through safeguarding rather than simple fulfillments of orders.
He no longer smiles like everything's going to be okay. Instead, his features are sharp and steeled and his eyes shift to stare at a specific corner he knows that creature is going to come crashing around in mere moments. Still connected, he can see the maze from her perspective. "See" is relative, because she doesn't have eyes. Nonetheless, the snapshot she builds of her surroundings from sound and smell alone is terribly accurate. She picks up Soleum's voice like crystal, along with the whistle of his lungs filling, the bubbling of his digestive system, all of the little noises a human body makes that they're almost never aware of.
Soleum has only just finished trying to soothe out the situation when Ivan backs up into him, beginning to draw the sword at his hip. It wasn't him getting spooked or stumbling; it was intentional, in order to position himself between his liege and any lunge the creature might make for them when it appears. ]
My lord, for your strategy... hiding won't work. Right now, her senses are also my senses, so you should consider abandoning me.
no subject
[ he has to do everything in his power to avoid reacting too badly to his words. it's not a complete plan, but it's a place to start, one where they can regroup and make a plan where it'll work for them. unfortunately, that's not a choice they have when the other is connected to her in some way or understands how things are at play here. even while human, is he under the order of a creature like that or because of his form n manhattan that he's unable to ignore his senses and gut to the situation. he knows that he can't stay.
he can't leave ivan here either. ]
Call me "Cat". [ he is no lord, he doesn't know if he wants to larp that sort of important person in this setting.
then what can he do where ivan will feel comfortable coming along with him? as a cavalier, they're meant to listen, but towards the safety of a "noble" they can act against. though, isn't it more dangerous to leave a noble on their own, especially one fitted for situations like this already, but it's not like anyone knows that soleum's job means he excels in this type of work. ]
If she works through you, it would be best to dull your senses. [ this is said easily as if he has a means to do that. ] If not, then I see no reason to leave you behind. You have promises to see through, and I want to make sure you're still able to.
no subject
She's able to use me because of what I am, I'm sure of it. So please, how would you suggest disabling my ability to see, hear... smell?
[ There's simply no time for a full explanation.
No time, and no easy words to describe the way that the sensorium of this creature is juxtaposing itself confusingly over top of his own. He's experiencing this moment as though he is both himself and the thing hunting them at the same time.
It must be the same for The Cleric, except it knows how to make sense of this much sensory information at once; Ivan is certain of it.
He holds his position, only making eye contact with Soleum's mask through the reflection in his sword-blade. ]
I suggest making a decision soon.
no subject
Yes. There are ways.
[ he could list them one by one on his fingers— the nostalgia candy that returns the user to their healthiest time in life (though, this was used on another and the connection to sleep was still the same. what of the cleric if used?), the blue churro that evicts any sort of contamination from the body once consumed, the happy maker allows for numbing the senses, and then there's... snow white's apple. ]
I could kill you.
[ this is said confidently enough that he has no qualms if ivan takes this poorly or not. ]
If you're willing to risk your life against what's chasing us, I'm sure you're willing to risk your life if I put you into that position myself.
[ either way, he would be dying for his lord.
at this moment, soleum has to hold back any excitement that comes from the idea of escaping this predicament. as long as he can disorient, sever the creature's connection with him and allow ivan to act independently from her then that's a win in their book. ]
no subject
Ivan's heart had already been beating fast in anticipation of The Cleric's coming. Only now, he can physically feel it quicken, making the arteries in his neck push dizzyingly against his tight collar, before moving onto the vessels of his temples. His ears start to ring from the loud sound of it.
Yet, he can't even deny that disposal isn't a logical way of dealing with a liability.
Saying nothing, he stabs his sword into an earthen crack in the stonework, leaving it standing there unsupported. Both arms lift, unbuckling the leather straps keeping his helmet mounted stoically atop his armored body. As fresh air hits his face, he gives into the sudden urge to breathe deep, perhaps to enjoy the feeling of his lungs stretching for one last time.
Head exposed, he then sinks into a kneel, one in which he bows it even more deeply down, down, down, pointing it at Soleum's feet. Time is of the essence, so he should make it as simple for his lord to end him as possible. At this angle, no one even needs to look him in his fear-constricted eyes.
He doesn't want this.
But oblige, he must. ]
no subject
[ words mumbled as he watches the other place himself in a position with his weapon proffered. to be able to accept death so easily, or maybe not, with his head held down in such a way, maybe he's still contemplating if there's some worth to this. onlya few seconds pass, and he has a feeling the other won't move. he remains still, waiting for the final moments in silence.
slowly, soleum kneels down right in front of the other, and his hand reaches out to run fingers through black locks of hair. there's a difference here. between when ivan is completely contaminated to the very little shown here, soleum feels able to handle him better. if only his fears could subside when faced against that form with a human's' head stitched atop in manhattan, but here he holds himself together well.
he has to be as roe deer, cat. ]
I will kill you on my terms. Trust me, it won't hurt.
[ the hand that offered comfort against the scalp now comes to ivan's chin, urging him to lift his head. he knows there's only so much time, and he knows allowing the other to gaze upon him offers ammunition to the hunt. in his free hand, there's a small cut of something that smells sweet, and the skin upon this treat a vibrant red. a piece of a ruby red apple. whether the fear in the boy's eyes has surpassed or still remains, soleum pays no attention to that, and instead speaks with absolute truth.
these words aren't spoken to ivan, but what's beyond ivan... using him. ]
You cannot have him. ...I'll be taking him from you.
[ just like that. a threat. a promise. and a taste. ivan will feel that sweet piece of apple brought to his lips. ]
Swallow.
[ because as soon as he does, it'll induce a "sleep-like death". his body will die, he will die, everything about him will be just like a corpse to cut off his senses between him and the cleric.
and that's when the real game begins. he's already thinking as he waits for the other to swallow where to move him, how to trick the cleric who is taking advantage of ivan's body, and how to manipulate the senses. ]
cw: death.... pseudo-death???
The mellow sweetness of the apple's moist flesh finds a way to his tongue before the morsel fully passes through his lips. Fresh fruit is a taste so rare, both in the cracked city their real bodies lay in and across the universe far, far beyond. He can only be receiving this because he's done something correct, something right. It doesn't make him think of impending death. It makes him forget it for the moment. Surely, why would something so nice be of any harm to him?
What it must mean is that his execution must have been postponed, at least for long enough to enjoy this. Of course he opens wide for itβof course. His teeth crush it down, heavenly juice gushing across his senses. In just a few moments, his eyes fall shut and he can't open them again. They're simply too heavy. His body gives way gracefully, muscle by muscle relaxing, a slow, silent teetering followed by a slower collapse.
Before he realizes it, he's already drifted away into the deepest slumber there is. ]
1/2
kim soleum is quick enough to catch the other, this collapse into him to make sure that the other goes unharmed. it's unfair, the position that they're in, the liability the other can be, and all soleum can do for the moment is sever the connection through death. he slowly comes down to his knees, he position the youth onto his lap, and his mind runs through various thoughts and outcomes.
he's seen death before, he's watches heads explode around him, pop like tomatoes and the red splatter. he's seen the body crushed, decapitated, he's seen so many ways of how someone can die. what he can only hope for is that the queen of this maze figures that she can no longer use him, that she sheds him like an unneeded shell, and searches for something— or someone else to use. underneath kim soleum's touch, he can feel ivan's skin have some warmth, but it's slowly going away.
yes, it's such a perfect item.
death is long, it stretches, an emptiness, it's nothing. it's nothing. ivan cannot move, he's unable to hear, but even his existence feels like it's fading. the descent into death had been so juicy, so sweet, easily slid down his throat... one last bit of what one would call living before it's all taken away.
silence. darkness. fading. fading.
unlike for kim soleum who has to acknowledge the colors, the smells, the noises of whatever slithers through the giagantic leaves. what makes them rustle. what has his heart skipping a beat. he mumbles to the corpse below that it'll be fine, he only needs time. just give him time.
two fingers dig into his left write, they disappear with ease, and he stretches the skin to reveal a subspace— and that's what soleum will do for now, to completely remove ivan's existence, he'll pull the entire body into the wrist compartment where a tattoo, : ζ©δΈ» : resides.
in goes the body.
the head, to the shoulders, he continues to pull the body inside until it's completely no more. a nice fit. removed from this scenario, and as the ground underneath him begins to shake, the man shifts back to hide into the shadows.
all he needs is time. ]
2/2
it was really all he needed, and it's why he's brought them into the darkest cave that he could find. the time above them ticks down still, but the place he's brought them to is close to the caged center, and if they go up, then they should be freed from this level. an escape.
a hand comes down to the boy's cheek, kim soleum lightly tapping with one, and with the other he's slipping something into his mouth.
ivan may feel stiff when he wakes, and it may hurt to move, but one thing he'll come to notice is that his vision has been obscured by fabric. he could easily remove it if not for his hands being bound as well. his legs are free, heavy much like the rest of him. ]
It's found...
[ a familiar voice, that noble he was with, that noble who had supposedly killed him now has him somewhat bound. however, it's not to hurt him, but to save him. ]
When you can move, I'll guide you in the direction you need to go. That way she won't be able to use you anymore.