TDM 001 ● JUNE 2025

[uruz]

TDM: ONE

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PRELUDE

(content warnings: dream horror, loss of autonomy, mild body horror, cult undertones )


You’ve had this dream before.

A moon cracked wide, spilling tendrils from its craters like bleeding silk. A sky starless and slow. And on the horizon: a wave. Massive. Black. Still. It creeps forward every time like sunrise. It hushes before collapse, but every time before this, you wake up just in time.

But not tonight. You can't outrun it even if you tried— it comes crashing down on you at last, swallowing you like a gaping black hole. Saltless, soundless, the water devours. But instead of drowning, you drift, suspended in velvet dark. And in that dark, her voice breathes.

“You don’t have to fall with it.
Let me in.
I can give you everything you’ve ever hungered for.
A place.
A purpose.
Stay.”

She offers. And you— your mouth, your mind— give an answer before you even know you’re speaking. Yes.

The tide recedes. The dark peels away like silk. You awaken beneath a canopy of gold, in a garden that hums with warmth and longing. Soft grass. Strange trees. Fragrant fruits in every color, dripping with light. And a mask upon your face, no straps, no weight, yet it clings to your skin like it was always part of you. You don't want to remove it. You could, maybe . . . But it would feel like tearing your skin away.

She no longer speaks to you, but her orchard breaths a sigh upon your arrival. A force tugs at the edges of your thoughts, beckoning you to contact the web you're now a part of. Welcome, Vessel.

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YOU CAN THREAD THE NEEDLE

(content warnings: sensory manipulation )

An orchard stretches around you in impossible directions, the horizon blurred like wet paint. Trees curl and arch with an elegance that feels practiced— like they’re posing for someone watching. Their trunks shimmer faintly. Leaves flutter even when there is no wind.

You are not alone. Others stir nearby, familiar or unfamiliar, though that distinction begins to blur. You may not know them, or perhaps you have the feeling you do even if you've never met them in your life. Either way, you might wish to know them.

From the strange branches within the orchard hang fruits shaped like stars, teardrops, or glass bells. Each one pulses faintly, waiting to be plucked. Their effects are subtle but powerful, crafted to cater to your desire and wonder:

🍎A pearlescent orb, cool and slick to the touch, whose taste floods you with a future that might be: a fleeting vision of joy, belonging, or beauty you didn’t know you craved. Whoever is nearby sees a glimpse of it too.
🍎A silver-veined citrus, fizzing like champagne. When shared between two, it evokes the feeling of a first time— first love, first rebellion, first triumph — even if you’ve never lived it. The emotional residue lingers between you.
🍎A blood-orange fruit with velvet skin, which when bitten into, causes your voice to harmonize with another’s— even if you weren’t speaking. You’ll find yourselves finishing each other’s thoughts, or speaking a secret you both forgot you held.
🍎A waxen, translucent fig, which grants you a small miracle: something you longed for appears beside you, conjured from dream. It might be a lost keepsake. A voice. A scent. A face.
🍎A smooth, silver fruit with a mirrored skin. When bitten, it briefly reflects the dreamer’s true self — not as they are, but as they wish to be. For a moment, others may see it too. The illusion clings for a time, making the character appear more like their ideal self in body, presence, or aura.
🍎A dark plum that glows faintly pink, almost heart-shaped, and warm to the touch. Its juice runs red and sticky, clinging to the lips. To taste it is to be filled with longing— for intimacy, for sensation, for touch. The desire may be gentle or overwhelming, but it lingers, tuned to the presence of someone nearby. It is not mindless. It is focused.

At the center of the orchard is a fountain, still and inviting. Its water tastes like clarity— and for a moment after drinking, your thoughts shape your surroundings. What you create might intertwine with what another dreams beside you.

Sleep does not speak in words. She breathes through the trees, hums through the soil, stares through your mask. Her voice, barely a whisper:

“Thread the needle, My Vessel.
Want.
Want, and see what answers you.”

You feel it,— if you resonate with another, something will change. Maybe the orchard will shift again. Maybe it already has.

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THE DAYLIGHT RECEDES

(content warnings: grief, loss, emotional vulnerability)

The orchard is gone. In its place stretches a landscape of ashen grass, supple and fragrant underfoot, warmed by a pale light that doesn’t seem to come from the sun. All around, a soft breeze stirs the fields— endless, loamy, and quiet. The air smells like soil after rain. It is peaceful here. But not happy.

Scattered across the fields are half-buried remnants: old beds, cracked record players, wilted bouquets, melted candles, notes scrawled on napkins— things lost in the moments between love and loneliness. Everything here feels half-remembered, yet painfully familiar. If a character reaches for one of these objects, they may hear a voice whispering a name they have tried to forget, or one they wish they'd remembered sooner.

In the distance, a shrouded figure walks the fields, unhurried, always just out of reach. Their back is turned, but their presence pulls like gravity. Some may choose to follow. Some may wait. And some may realize they’re walking beside someone else— a stranger who seems to carry a memory they, too, once held.

This is a moment of reflection. Interactions blossom from shared worries, slow confessions, or uncanny synchronicities. Characters might recognize something in another, such as a gesture, a phrase, a scent— and feel that thread begin to tug. Best follow its lead . . . You won't be able to leave unless you do.

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EVERYTHING WE LOVE RESETS

(content warnings: body horror, transformation, loss of autonomy, psychological horror, cosmic dread )

You awaken— or perhaps you never truly slept. The orchard is gone. The fields have withered. All is silence now, and the air is soaked in dread.

A still, uncanny plane stretches out before you: rotted soil, stagnant pools, shattered glass trees that hum with an almost-familiar voice. Echoes of what the dream once offered—sweet fruit, blooming things, beauty— remain only as scars on the land. Their pleasures have fermented into menace. The dreamscape is collapsing.

Sleep, ever present, ever watching, does not weep. She has already taken what she wants, and you see her teeth stretched too wide in the shadows. In the reflection that splits back at you. In the soundless breeze with much more bite and possession than the gentle caress of invitation. She whispers, from the shadows between dying stars:

"You said yes. Now let me see what you become."

The mask on your face tightens, no longer decoration. A binding. You are no longer merely dreaming— Your skin may change fluidly, or break down through the bones violently. Your flesh may split, brimming with power, or your blood could burn like lava oozing through your veins. You may even experience it again, and again, and again; a different beast or burst of magic each time. Whether painful or painless, You are now either Token, or Offering. You may not yet know what that means— But your body does.

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EVEN WHEN WE RUN WITH DEATH

(content warnings: body horror, fungal infections, parasitism, loss of agency, cosmic horror, violence, death, cult imagery)

Your surroundings bend and break with growing instability: The sky splits open, revealing a bleeding red moon, weeping tendrils like raw nerves. It feels wrong in a way you have no words for. It sees you. And it beckons for blood.

The dream does not want peace now. It wants performance. It wants pain. And above all, Sleep wants you all to herself. She watches from the broken heavens, humming in delight as you run, as you fight, as you fracture under the weight of your becoming. Perhaps you turn on each other, frightened with what you have become or too frazzled to control yourself, or the newfound power you possess.

There are other things to look out for, though. Creatures stalk this unraveling plane: malformed creatures with mutated faces and fungal blooms bursting from their orifices, or tendrils slithering from what were once mouths and eye sockets. Once Vessels. Hosts. They may speak with familiar voices. They may try to barter, or bite. Those with hands and fingers may try and force your eyelids to part, to tilt your gaze to the sky above you, chanting in tongues that drill into your brain stem. Hushing in song. Whispering Look at her. She is Beautiful.

If you are caught, if you gaze up at Her for too long— you too will suffer the same fate. Fungal bursts and tendrils will spurt from your mouth, invade you from the inside and reach out to her in sacred reverence. It's a horrible way to go. If this is an end you find, you too, despite your pain, may begin to smile. You might have even more reason to attack your fellow Vessels. They too, must see Her beauty like you do.

The song stutters. The dream recoils when you succumb to the worst of Her parasitism, even though you don't lose consciousness. It is not Sleep who speaks next. In your last few seconds of awareness, you hear in your ears, in your mind, in your soul, snarling and thick with fury:


“What have you done?”

The world begins to scream. You begin to fall.

The dream is over.

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NOTES

➤ Welcome to Somnia’s first TDM! All TDMs will be considered game canon.
➤ You are free (and encouraged!) to experiment with the Tether mechanic as well as Vessel options and the Network to your liking; this is a dreamscape, so multiple/different situations for you to really test which option you like most is possible.
➤ All TDMs take place within a dreamscape, meaning characters can interact with the setting without needing to apply. Come have fun with us!
➤ Mod invited players may currently extend one invite per player. Interested players who do not have mod invites or a friend to get an invite from may comment to the appropriate top level to solicit one, or, solicit one from the mod here. Please keep in mind that soliciting an invite does not guarantee one.
➤ Questions? Please direct them to the designated questions comment linked below!

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Comments

!!!

[sadpoem]

[It...surprises him. It's not that this person, whoever she is, has good reason not to trust him, but...Sunny doesn't much trust anyone these days. To that end, her sentiment isn't returned in kind, but with some healthy caution instead. Even given that, it's a friendly extension, just as curious as his question. He thinks she must be some kind of npc, maybe a party member to befriend, rather than a boss to defeat. He's not sure, but...

[At the very least, he can affirm what she's asking. Yes. Sunny thinks it's strange too. He's grateful though. There's a sense of relief at the idea that he doesn't have to speak.]

[richesse]

Hm, hm~ I guess that makes things easier for us.

[ the trust is her own, and not for him, but for another. that she can call the feeling forward enough for him to feel it, though… now that’s something.

With a tilt of her head Lortel suffuses their connection with a sunny warmth—her way of teasing him, for his name. ]

[sadpoem]

[Telepathic jokes! His feelings aren't hurt by her teasing. He wonders after it, wanting to know her name too. He leaves space wide open for her to fill in the blanks. "Just a normal girl" hardly works for introductions, even if Sunny may never truly speak her name out loud.]

[richesse]

Lortel.

[ this she offers aloud. ]

Lortel Kehelland.

[ now with that sunny warmth comes a pointed curiosity. she imagines a voice, silenced, muted by—

Well, by what? ]

[sadpoem]

[Curious. That formless static flares up between them again, and Sunny seems to disappear, if only for a moment. When he flickers back into place, he offers the equivalent of an awkward shrug. Who knows?]

[richesse]

… I’m trying to decipher if that means you don’t know or you don’t want to share. What a strange way of communicating.

[ she grants him a sense of passing time.

how long has he been here? ]

[sadpoem]

[For what it's worth, to her words, there's only some mild confusion, as if he's not sure what she's referring to. To her silent question, he offers that he hasn't been here long - it's framed a bit strangely, though... He thinks of sleep, certain this is all a dream. To that end, he's not all that concerned about how long he's been..."sleeping".]

[richesse]

… is there not a difference? You don’t know, so you can’t share even if you wanted to… something like that?

[ … a smile. ]

You really believe we’re just dreaming? That would be nice, if it were true.

feel free to assume as much of this is conveyed as u wish <3

[sadpoem]

[Now, that's a little odd. It isn't normal for dream creatures to say things like 'You really believe we're just dreaming?' It seems unsafe to point it out, like the sky above them might shatter. It already looks wrong, without the stars and shapes that Sunny is used to. The murmur conveys this bewilderment, Sunny in a whirlpool of half-formed fears and imaginings that breach even what one would call bizarre in a place like this.

[Yeesh. What is going on in this guy's head?

[By the end of that little episode, he's back to his default state. It simply must be a dream. In real life, he lives in a house with a room and a bed. It's nothing like this...]

[richesse]

[ … ]

You really do believe it. Have you ever had such a strange dream before?

[sadpoem]

[The answer is just as certain. It rings through clearly, given that - yes, of course. His dreams are always this way (right?)]

[richesse]

[ a laugh bubbles out of her ]

So I’m part of your dream, too?

[sadpoem]

[To this, a very teen reaction - that is, Sunny's shyness coming through with all the subtlety of a bright red face. His heart beats just a little quicker too.

[For what it's worth, if he ever wanted to hide what he was thinking, it would definitely be right now, but...that strange black static remains strangely absent.]

[richesse]

Oh, aren’t you sweet. [ she can feel that fizzy shy sweetness, and it makes her blush faintly. she shakes her head—at the two of them, making each other flustered. ]

You’d be very lucky to have a dream of me~ But truthfully, I’m positive this isn’t a dream.

1/3

[sadpoem]

[If he feels flustered, and she feels flustered, then-

[No! No, he can't think about that now. Besides, there's something new to worry about now.

[It simply must be a dream.

[If it isn't a dream, then Sunny...]

2/3

[sadpoem]

[...is terrified.]

3/3

[sadpoem]

[We wouldn't want that...]

1/2

[richesse]

[richesse]

[ what was that? What was that?!

in this medium, she has a harder time hiding her feelings, loosely connected as they are. she flashes through them quickly—shock, terror, confusion, anger—and eventually settles on a forbearing caution. ]

… I’d ask what you have to be so afraid of, but … hm, either you won’t be able to answer or the static will come back.

Okay, Sunny. Then my gift to you is this dream of me.

[sadpoem]

[It's just as she says. She can scarcely finish her thought before Sunny's static starts creeping its way back in like a vignette around the edges of their shared consciousness. When she switches the topic back to dreams, it fades away once again, and Sunny is left feeling mild, unbothered, only residual anxiety left behind.

[And...just one more thing. He'd really like to know what she looks like.]

[richesse]

[ How delicate, she thinks.

Has he been through something terrible? ]

Hm… but I thought this is your dream. Shouldn’t you know what I look like?

[sadpoem]

[He thinks of someone, a girl who's as sharp as nails. The image reveals itself in brief, incomplete flashes; pink hair, blue eyes.

[But that isn't Lortel. His question nudges her again, a touch more timid this time. Of course, she doesn't have to show him if she doesn't want to.

[As for Sunny...one might imagine him just barely poking his head into frame. He's young, but not as young as he looks, a frail little thing.]

[richesse]

Hm, hm. I remind you of a friend, hm? Close, but not quite.

[ she focuses—inwards, on herself, picturing her red hair and her school uniform and her bright green eyes. in this mental image, she is smiling mysteriously.

she lets it go with a laugh, then mentally nudges him back. as if to get him out from around that corner he’s hiding behind. ]

… how old are you, anyway?

[sadpoem]

[It's...strange. She really does look like Aubrey, or even Sweetheart. Really, that just proves that she's one of Sunny's dreams. He certainly has a type...

[As for his age, he...struggles for a second. It's not the static, just some fog. He tries to count backwards and fails. Eventually, he just pictures the outside of his high school. He should be a sophomore, but she might get the impression that he hasn't attended in a while...]

[richesse]

… let me see you, then. A little more clearly.

[ is he her age? she briefly had this impression like he was younger than her… ]