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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Yun Ruhong | TTRPG OC (D&D 5E)

[hongtian]

i. prelude

[ This is not a dream that Ruhong has ever head, because Ruhong does not dream.

Does not and should not, which means only that this can be real. Ruhong stares at the golden canopy, entranced from where she is lying in the grass, her armor shod to the ground beside her but three swords within an arms-reach of her right side. Warmth, longing, hunger—she contemplates all of these and stretches out an arm above her as though to grasp the light trying with all its might to peek through the scattered leaves.

She is no stranger to being shunted to other planes; nor is she a stranger to promises of fulfillment. Something seems wrong, she thinks, deep in the back of her mind. The darkness. The promises. The beckoning in her mind.

Ruhong is very familiar with all of these. ]

Which is more terrifying? [ Her voice is calm, quiet—dazed. ] That this is real? Or that it could be the first dream I have ever had?

ii. thread the needle

[ The thing is—Ruhong is always hungry.

She can feel him, that shimmer of ruby light that pulses deep within her inner core, the part of her soul that is as much her salvation as it is her downfall. Despite every screaming instinct (dulled within her) not to eat, Ruhong knows she will. He is hungry; they are one and the same, so she is hungry. And she will eat.

Ruhong has never been very good at holding back.

So she plucks, and she bites, licking the juice from her lips, and she bites again and tries another. For a moment, from the silver fruit, Ruhong shines with glittering ruby wings and scales; from the fig (which makes her drop the fruit) a harsh whisper and a moment—Ruhong swears—of a blond man who ducks behind the tree and drops a journal that vanishes when she approaches; and when she bites the plum, she hears another approaching and turns to offer the rest to them. ]

It's only a plum, not a peach. But bitten nonetheless, if those are the kinds of stories you enjoy.

iii. even when we run with death

[ As the world screams, so does Ruhong. ]

You will look upon me! [ She snarls back in a language guttural and primal, one that rips from her throat as though it forces its way through. Ruhong is covered in blood and viscera, her armor no longer pristine and a sword dripping bloody in her grip. ] You brought me here! You invite the Turning of the Ages, the inevitable downfall that I—

[ She doesn't finish the sentence. A terrible creature is once again upon her, and Ruhong strikes, jerking her blade sideways as it flashes with gold and ruby light, a furious, half-crazed laugh falling from her tongue. As she rips it in half, she comes face-to-face with a new figure as she bites out: ]

You have never seen beauty like il-Yannah!

( ooc: i have not rp'd in YEARS and so i'm still mid-setup of icons/about/journal etc. please bear with me and feel free to reach out (dm or aerolith) if you have questions! )

iii

[dethangel]

Wowee...

[Toki holds his hands up in front of himself in an attempt at a placating gesture, frozen to the spot. He knows he looks pretty bad right now, the deathly pallor of a corpse having overtaken him at some point thanks to... whatever this is, but if ever there was a wrong place at a wrong time, right behind a creature somebody just shredded is definitely it.]

Uh... I'm not with that guy!

[He holds his hands up a little higher, as if that'll make it obvious.]

[hongtian]

[ She stops just short of hitting him, the blade inches from his skin. There's something not quite there in Ruhong's expression, like she's seeing something through him, but the sound of his voice draws her back. That look beyond fades, and she focuses in again and sees him. ]

...No. [ Ruhong lowers the weapon. ] Clearly not.

[ She looks him up and down, eyes glittering red. ]

If you're not with them, then with whom?

[dethangel]

[Oh, thank fuck. Toki lets out a breath, a lot more shuddery and labored than he intended, and his shoulders relax somewhat. He puts his hands down, although his attention flicks to the sword again every now and then.]

I think I'm... just by myself right now.

[It's not great, he doesn't care too much for loneliness, but right now it's probably better than listening to whatever these creatures have to say.]

But at least it's not with them!

[hongtian]

[ Ruhong is dressed as though she had come for battle, the clothes on her back when she had woken in the orchard the scaled armor that's now equally spattered in fungal viscera as the rest of her. She hadn't, though—she merely often sleeps in her armor when traveling—and had certainly not expected the idyll of the golden orchard where she had suddenly awoken to become this. ]

You think? [ That's a curious statement to make. They're not exactly safe for casual conversation now just because there's one less creature to grab at them, but then that means they're as safe here as they would be anywhere. ] Were you not alone before? Were others with you? Are you searching for them?

( ooc: totally think i misread what comes with us in the dreamscape late last night so the sword was never here OOP let's call it a very pointy stick )

[dethangel]

[Toki is definitely not dressed for anything even resembling a battle aside from a pair of boots, his t-shirt and pants much too casual for what he's ended up in the middle of. He glances around to make sure nothing else is coming towards them all the same.]

I saw some people around before... not with anybody right now, I guess.

[It's easy to get lost around here, even with the landscape in such bad shape. People come and go, and it's easy to get distracted.]

I, uh... guess I'm looking for people I know! And maybe just people. And... stuff keeps happening?

[((that's basically a sword!))]

[hongtian]

Well. [ Her voice is wry, and there may be the smallest hint of a smile on her lips. ] Things do indeed keep happening.

[ As if on cue, something shudders and roars in the bleeding red sky. The ground beneath them shakes, and Ruhong stumbles and grabs at her head as though it will block out the horrible song that begs them endlessly to look. ]

We have to move. [ If they found a portal into her world through which to bring her, then surely it—or another like it—could be found to go back out. She reaches out as though she intends to pull him along with her, and as she does, her face and voice intensify. ] Did you look up? Did you look at the darkness?

[dethangel]

[Fuck. Turns out having been through a whole almost-apocalypse doesn't necessarily make any of this other stuff less scary. Toki's not feeling particularly speedy right now, his body apparently not wanting to move correctly, so he's perfectly happy to let her pull him along so he can use the momentum to keep going.]

N-no, I was busy looking at... other stuff.

[It's probably a good thing all of these fuckers are distracting enough to keep him from looking too hard at the sky, even if they're trying their damnedest. If he happens to get caught somewhere he can't get away...]

We shouldn't listen to those guys, right?

[hongtian]

[ Considering that this is basically Ruhong's worst-case scenario in life, she thinks she's holding it together rather well. Rather well for Ruhong, however, is tempered by the fact that Ruhong often fails to hold it together really much at all when it comes to her ancestral enemy of the Dreaming Dark.

Two more malformed creatures catch her attention: still hundreds of yards away, and perhaps not yet aware of the two humans running through the twisted landscape, but too close for Ruhong's comfort. They'll have to deal with them, she thinks, one way or another, but she's not sure if her nervous new companion is equipped for another confrontation.

She tugs him around a rocky outcropping with the intent (unless he protests or fights her in it) of pressing his shoulder to it so that she can hold him there. ]

Have you listened? [ She snarls before she remembers herself—remembers that he is soft, alone, and afraid. Ruhong backs up. ] Don't listen. Don't look. It desires darkness, and what it touches darkness destroys. It will make you part of it until you are you no longer. So remember the light. Remember the beauty that lives in your heart.

[ She brushes one hand against her other forearm, where a strange triangular symbol is stitched into the leather of her bracer. ]

Can you fight?

i

[devilmind]

[ It is with gentle caution that the Operator approaches the woman in the orchard. The last time they had had a dream even remotely like this one, it had been a message, a cry for help; they see it as their duty to answer the call. They step forward plainly, without stealth, not wanting to startle her. She looks human—if the Operator is lucky, she'll take them for the same. ]

It could be both, [ they answer softly. ] Though I doubt that makes it any less frightening.

[ They stop a respectful distance away, observing the woman. She doesn't look hurt at all, nor is she literally howling in distress like Umbra had been when the Operator had dreamed of him. In fact, she seems quite calm. ]

Are you the one who called me here? [ the Operator asks, youthful brow furrowing. ] Are you... in pain?

[hongtian]

[ Passive perception? 10. Ruhong is lost in her thoughts of the golden canopy above, and though the Operator takes every care not to surprise her, she startles at the soft sound of their voice nonetheless.

Ruhong sits upright, reaching on the ground for something that isn't beside her before calming when she focuses on them a reasonable distance away. For a moment she looks back at her side, frowning—she had thought she had her belongings with her, but perhaps she had thought wrong—before looking back to the figure speaking to her.

She smiles wryly. ]

Neither in pain nor the one who called you. [ Is she speaking with her lips or through her mind, that strange tug that beckons to them? It's hard to tell. ] I ought to ask you the same. Called, were you as well?

[ She begins to rise to her feet. ] I believe you're right, for what it's worth. That it's as real as it is a dream. And for that there are many who should be very, very afraid.

[devilmind]

[ The Operator sees that reach for something by the woman's side. A weapon? They tense for a moment, though relax again when she smiles. ]

I don't usually dream like this, [ they say, and now it is their turn to smile wryly, amused by the understatement in their words. ] When I do, there's usually a reason.

[ A call. Or a trap. They still remember what the Twin Queens had tried to do to them. But if this is a trap, who could have sprung it? Who would have the power to ensnare them aboard their own Orbiter? They remember, suddenly, a voice, whispering to them. A woman's voice.

Not this woman's voice, though. Could she have been pulled in with them? ]

I don't know you, [ the Operator broaches. ] Do I?

[hongtian]

[ Ruhong is unaccustomed to being unarmed. She feels half-undressed when she's missing even one sword, let alone all three. They're part of her, attuned with the power she cultivates in her golden core and an extension of her body, so she'd fully believed they'd still be with her. It's unnerving to find them missing; it's theft, that voice in her mind whispers angrily.

She agrees, but she'll have to get to that later. ]

You would know the answer better than I, I would think. Though, in all fairness—[ She gestures at the mask on her face. ] This may not make it any easier to tell. But if you're asking if I know you, I assume the same as you.

[ She rises to her feet, her white hair catching the light that's made its way beneath the fruit trees. ]

But you do dream. [ She says this as though it means something to her. ] For what sorts of reasons do you dream?

[devilmind]

[ The Operator's lips twitch upward when the woman says she thinks they should know better than her whether they've been acquainted. Only if she knew the truth. Still, there may be a certain safety, too, in her not recognizing them as a Tenno. ]

Like this, you mean? [ the Operator says, gesturing to the surreal landscape surrounding them. ] It's usually a message. Someone in pain. Someone I need to help when I wake up.

[ They don't mention how it could be a trap. They don't want to unnecessarily alarm the woman without a definite cause. ]

But you're the only person I've seen so far—and you don't seem to need any help.

[ There's a hint of a questioning tone in that last statement. The woman doesn't seem to need any help, yes, but things aren't always as they seem. ]

[hongtian]

[ Ruhong doesn't respond at first, not quite sure what to make of that explanation. She pretends that she's admiring the canopy again, the golden boughs that both shade them and bathe them in light. How often do people usually dream of messages that mean something instead of images that make little sense when they wake? She wouldn't know. ]

I don't suppose I do.

[ Mild. Ruhong pulls her gaze back from the branches to look at the Operator again. ]

Perhaps it's the other way around this time. Do you?

[devilmind]

[ The Operator looks a little taken aback by the question. ]

I— No, I don't.

[ They know they weren't in any physical distress when they'd been brought here; they hadn't even been in battle at the time. As for emotional distress, they do have a one pressing concern weighing on them, though it's not the sort they'd imagine would cause them to reach out to a stranger in their dreams. Still, they wonder... ]

...Unless you know the name "Lotus?"

[hongtian]

[ Ruhong studies the Operator, a curious look on her face. She's taking her time in between her responses, and she knows that if she continues to do so they may begin to think her slow. Which, Ruhong thinks drily, perhaps she is.

Still, there's a lot to take in; she hasn't even decided yet if this is really a dream in the first place, let alone been able to parse anything about the person now in front of her. Each new bit of information hasn't sunk in before she receives the next one, and Ruhong doesn't know what to do with it. She much prefers it when things are far more... straightforward. ]

I know of a few with that word in their names.

[ Two or three others in the village, perhaps, along with some rather more-than-human figures used the character in their names from what Ruhong remembers. ]

Though I'd be as surprised and concerned were they to dream as I am. Are you searching for someone?

ii. cw disordered thinking around food

[faa]

[ Beggars can't be choosers—and that's more-or-less what another abrupt fluctuation in Freddie Lavoie's blood sugar has reduced him to at this moment. A vaguely nauseous, too-hot-then-too-cold, slightly unsteady beggar. He can't say he's too keen on the idea of eating the same fruit that someone else bit into—shit, after COVID, he won't even eat a birthday cake if it had candles that got blown out—but with how much sugar is in fruit, he shouldn't need that much to give his glucose levels enough buoyancy for a return to something approximating normal, so he should probably be able to just eat around the parts the stranger's mouth was on. ]

That's fine. I'll take what I can get. Thanks.

[ In the realm of taking what he can get: eating in front of anyone, let alone a woman, let alone someone thin and attractive in a very classic way. That adds to the whole mortifying ordeal; it feels like something raw and private, something that isn't for a stranger to witness, and there's something vulgar and animalistic about just biting straight into a fruit, making a mess with the juices. But he might be able to mitigate it, slightly. ]

Do you, uh. Do you have a knife?

[ She looks like the kind of person who might have a knife. ]

[hongtian]

[ Ruhong is, very much, the kind of person who should have a knife. A knife and at minimum two swords—three, with her usual arsenal, and she's never opposed to more. She only needs one at a time (she can only use one sword at a time with her shield on her left arm), but Ruhong likes the security of having more. Call it the luxury of choice, call it her pride at having won them, call it an intimidation tactic, whatever you will, she loves the array of beautifully crafted sharp steel at her hip.

It's annoying, then, that Ruhong's weapons don't seem to have accompanied her to the orchard. (ooc: when u misread a question before making your top level and retcon yourself) But Ruhong's been without steel before; that doesn't mean she's without options.

The man looks unsteady and slightly pale; while Ruhong decides that food is usually a good first step before she offers any magical assistance, she won't rule that out, either. She lowers her arm with the offered fruit, nestled in her left hand, and lifts up her right palm. Where the leaves in the trees above cast shadows over her hand, those shadows seem to get darker—and then darker—and then darker—coalescing and twisting as Ruhong whispers the words to the shadow blade spell until it settles in her hand.

At least this place hasn't prevented her from doing that much—yet. Calmly, she carves the plum in half and offers the fruit once more. ]

I'm afraid I'm unable to hand this over to you to do it yourself, so this will have to do. Is this good enough?

BEEN THERE lmaoo. cw diabetes stigma!

[faa]

[ That's not a knife!

He's not sure... what the fuck he's just watched, honestly, but it seems to go hand-in-hand with the weirdness of this whole... dreamscape. The orchard, the voices, et cetera. He's a little too taken aback in the moment to comment that no, actually, he was thinking of cutting it into wedges, so that he wouldn't have to just bite into it like an animal eating a carcass in front of her, but that looked like it took a tremendous amount of effort, and Freddie thinks it would be decidedly awkward to be like, No, actually, can you cut it up for me like I'm a little kid?, so he keeps the thoughts to himself and takes the proverbial L of having to debase himself in front of a stranger. Somehow, it would be even more embarrassing to bend over backwards to ask her to cut up dream orchard fruit like it's going in a third grader's lunchbox than to eat that fruit in front of her whole. Funny situation he's in, now. ]

I—thank you, yeah, that's—that's fine. I just— half of should be yours. Fair's fair.

[ What kind of lame-ass excuse is that? It's something, though, so that she doesn't correctly assume he's worried about her having some sort of... disease.

He takes his half from her; there's a faint tremble to his fingers as he does, and he knows he's probably pale. Based on how she's dressed, maybe, hopefully, low blood sugar and You Did It To Yourself Disease are foreign concepts to her. Either way—there's still the shame of her just standing there watching him eat and probably thinking something to the extent of should someone like him be having something like that and it makes his skin crawl just as much as the hypoglycemic chill that periodically interrupts the uncomfortable warmth of his body's bellwether response to low blood sugar.

So he tries to eat it as neatly as he can, taking small bites, careful not to appear too overeager despite the increasingly pressing need for sugar. It's still a feeling of mortification. He pauses, halfway through; that's probably enough to get his glucose levels back to where they should be within like fifteen minutes or so, but it's not like he has his meter here with him, so he'd better finish the full thing so he doesn't end up like that girl in Steel Magnolias or something. ]

Thank you.

i can read i swear

[hongtian]

[ It's tempting, watching him in the moment, to cast another spell to detect his thoughts. As practical as the shadow blade had been without an actual knife, it isn't as though Ruhong had tried to avoid any flourishes. She likes a show and all the attention that comes with it: there's something satisfying about watching the emotions on others' faces when she shows any display of power, no matter how trivial. (And it was trivial, but that doesn't mean she can't enjoy it.)

But her magic in this orchard has felt... sluggish. Not quite right. Like it's slipping between her fingers, swirling through the rivers of her body, in a way that's like grasping sand. Ruhong knows she could reach out if she wanted—but, strangely, there's a pull in her mind that's not quite hers that holds her back.

So, for now, she just watches him. ]

...Shall we sit, perhaps?

[ She offers it as a shared decision, noticing but not drawing attention to the tremble in his hand when he takes his half from her. She sits without waiting for an answer: a smooth, singular motion that has her nestled in the grass, her legs crossed beneath her, without hesitation. ]

I can pluck another if you like.

[ She brings her half back to her mouth now, not nearly as careful as Freddie with her bites. Ruhong is always hungry. She wipes her mouth with the back of a hand, the juice sticky and red, and takes a few more bites to finish it off. That pull in her mind is growing stronger, somehow, the more she eats. Stronger, and strangest of all, tugging her attention strongly in the direction of the stranger. ]

oh thank god at least one of us can

[faa]

This should be enough. Thanks.

[ Another isn't a thought he's not having, because that's always the thought that comes with eating, even when he's not hungry, even when he's full. Especially with sweet things, palatable things, like this, although he supposes the plum is probably the least awful-for-him thing he's had in the past week, so there's that, at least. Other than self-regulating his blood sugar with bites of fruit like a lizard moving through a thermocline to control the temperature of its blood, though, he really shouldn't be having this kind of sugar. It's why he's in this situation to begin with, why he's so close to diabetic and having to eat secondhand fruit from strangers in weird dream orchards, Dream COVID be damned.

With each passing minute he sits in the grass, the reality of his new isolation here crystallizes a little further; the weight of it gradually settles over his shoulders like a wool fire blanket. Everyone he knows is gone. He doesn't miss his parents half as much as he should, or feel as much distress or worry as an adult child cut off from his parents should. He wonders what she would think of that, how that would change her perception of him as a person, assuming she comes from a culture in which filial piety means more than just not Putting Mom and Dad In A Home as it does for all of the Irish-Americans and French-Canadians of the world. He shouldn't care about the rhetorical as much as he does. They've just met, and he's sure as shit not in the business of telling strangers all about his family dysfunction.

All of his buddies from the past ten years in the Air Force. His favorite air traffic controllers. Everyone he's made a point of keeping up with is just... gone. Tabula rasa. Blank slate. No connections, no ties—he's adrift in a void here, and it's terrifying. He realizes he hasn't felt this alone since he was a very young child, and even then he'd kept himself company with an imaginary friend until his parents' divorce shattered the illusion.

Might as well introduce himself. ]

I'm Freddie. You're—?

a rare occurrence for me really

[hongtian]

[ Ruhong finishes her half of the plum before responding and licks the juice from her fingertips. She does so as daintily as someone can, lifting her left forearm in front of her face out of habit as though to shield the view. The gesture is meant to be done with wide, long sleeves, however, which Ruhong is not wearing; still, there's some level of modesty there, at least. Fully unaware of Freddie's concerns, she herself has no thought of illness. The divine energy that circulates through her meridians burns away any hint of it to keep her healthy—and eternally immune.

She lowers her arms to study him. The plum finished, the pull in the back of her mind in Freddie's direction continues, the feeling spreading to a warmth in her chest down to her fingertips, which twitch as she settles them on her knees. Ruhong fights back a frown, only years of practice keeping her face smooth and impassive, though perhaps not entirely free of the hint of something not quite right in her expression.

What is that feeling? ]

Yun Ruhong. [ She says the three syllables of her name slowly and takes a deep breath. ] Ruhong.

[ She tilts her head. ]

Have you always been here, Freddie? Or are you as out of place as I am?

cw assumptions based on (assumed) ethnicity

[faa]

[ Freddie's lips move silently as he traces the sound in his mind, in no mood to make an ass out of himself by mispronouncing it a matter of minutes after hearing her spell it out not once but twice. He's pretty sure Yun is a Chinese surname; the introduction cements the idea that she'd probably think a lot less of him if she knew how little he was thinking of the parents he now presumes himself permanently separated from.

She's just as out-of-place as he is. That's comforting, at least. They're in this together, like he was in it together with all of the other idiots who willingly signed up for OCS and all of the Air Force donkeys in Iraq.

Based on her clothing, she's probably not from modern China (or Hong Kong). And he's not positive if Yun Ruhong is a two-word first name or her full name, but the inflection made it sound like her full name, so he figures he should append to his introduction: ]

My family name is, uh, Lavoie. And I just got here. [ He holds up both hands. ] If there was an orientation, I missed it.

[hongtian]

[ He's both right and wrong in some of his assumptions, but not in a way in which Ruhong could possibly explain. China does not exist, and while the concept of filial piety does, its application in Ruhong's life has been—well—not quite so clear-cut.

Perhaps she should have simply given her Common surname. She's always been reluctant to share it. Habits die hard even when there's no possible way the man before her would know the significance of a kalshtar's name—if he even knows what that is at all.

She smiles at him with one corner of her mouth, the look rather wry. ]

No darkness, no disembodied voice that pulled you under and urged you to stay?