![[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}
Entry tags:
TDM 001 ● JUNE 2025
TDM: ONE
ᛗPRELUDE
(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.
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.
ᛗYOU 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:
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.
ᛗTHE 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.
ᛗ
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.
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:
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.
ᛗ 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:
The world begins to scream. You begin to fall.
The dream is over.
ᛗNOTES
➤ 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!
➤ 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!
no subject
[ Whether an illusion is meant to confuse, frighten, or lull one into complacency, it doesn't matter. Without her magic, she can't sense any ambient chroma to latch on to, and there is no sense of elemental matter around them outside of what she can reach out and touch with her hands. It's a disorienting feeling, and she can't trust what she thinks she can feel.
Even nightmares can feel real to the person walking through them.
Linhardt is given a second fruit and then a third as she goes to each tree. His plan is sound, to grab two of each, and Lune slides a few into the crook of her arm as she weaves back between the trees and then returns to him. She doesn't have a knife to carve into them, but it also may not matter. ]
We can use one of our own items, then, as I don't trust any landmarks here to not shift if this place is an illusion.
[ Lune is already starting to tug off her glove for use as a landmark, and her eyes flick back to him. The furrow of her brow hints at her annoyance, like he's slowing down the process. ]
You could. Would you be satisfied with any answer I could give?
[ She starts to shed her coat for a makeshift sling for all of the fruit, so he needn't use his pockets, but she pauses halfway to reconsider him. At length, she holds out her hand. ]
Will this suffice for now, until we find better confirmation that we're both not seeing things and imagining voices?
no subject
[ They don't know each other. Which means that there are no shortcuts to be taken. No assurances or points of the other's nature to indicate whether they would or wouldn't have sound judgements. In their absence, the best way to determine whether he should lend her theory credence is to know how she developed it.
He takes the fruit without comment, pleased that his coat was designed to carry his collection of oddities. The pockets are proving useful. He watches her tug her glove off. Why? Ah. That's...an idea. Although he's not certain it's a useful one. ]
I suppose that's worth trying.
[It won't tell them much if it's not here when they come back, but if it is, that would tell them something.
He matches his stare with a level gaze of his own, her annoyance not dissuading him. Annoyance is a very human reaction, however. Another point in her favor.]
No, but how you react is still informational. If this is a trap, then maybe I shouldn't let you lead me off into wilderness. That is all. You just informed me that you're not going to lie to me without provocation, which is useful. And that I annoy you, which is a point in your favor regarding being real. I'm rather annoying.
[ What a handshake is supposed to prove, Linhardt isn't certain. If they're seeing and hearing things, who's to say they can't be feeling things as well? Still, he reaches out and grasps the woman's hand and there is some comfort in the solidity of it. He pulls away a short beat before it's appropriate, watching her shed her coat with interest.
Does she not trust him to carry the fruit? That's fine. ]
The temperature is too comfortable.
[ How can they both be comfortable? The woman, now sans coat and shoes, and himself in his layers and with his heavy footwear? One of them should be cold. Or hot. ]
It's going to have to. You're the most rational being I've encountered here.
[ Linhardt gestures. After her. He's more than happy to have the woman take the lead if she wants to. Though first, he returns to the lip of the fountain and returns back to her, counting the steps as he moves. They shouldn't forget the first few feet. If something is off, it might be subtle.]
no subject
[ A song and real illusions, a dance that encouraged them to forget their worries. And the piles and piles of bodies from previous Expeditions told her everything she needed to know about such a creature. She doesn't want a repeat of such an affair.
The handshake is fleeting but the contact of their hands is...warm. There's an odd sensation in the back of her mind, like a twinge, not unpleasant. Maybe she's gone so long without that it's brought some emotion to the surface, easy to ignore when he pulls his hand back. Lune scoops up her jacket and holds it out in a circle of her arm. ]
You don't need to use your pockets if there's not enough space. [ She's just being economical for the time being. The temperature is too perfect; even losing the jacket hasn't changed how pleasant it all feels. So, one more point for illusion.
Not that it changes much. ] I do hope we're not the only rational ones here.
[ In the distance, she can see some of the others, hear their murmurs. No one looks similar, and no one else is wearing the golden sash of 33 like she is. It doesn't do much to dissuade her of her theories, but if this was a real illusion or a dream...wouldn't it be easier to show her someone she knows, someone comforting?
She waits until Linhardt returns, then begins to walk with him, counting her own steps and proceeding just slow enough to not be rushed, to be methodical. By sight, the trees seem to stretch out indefinitely, or at least to what seems to be another row of underbrush in the distance. It looks natural, even if most of this is anything but. ]
Are you from Lumière?
no subject
[If she's basing her theories on this previous encounter and that creature wanted to lure others closer, than turning and walking in the other direction isn't a bad reaction. Linhardt can't help but shiver when he considers the implications of her words: there are monsters with such a high level of thought that they can lay traps.
Linhardt blinks when she holds out the coat. That's why she'd taken it off? He would have told her if there wasn't enough room.]
There's enough room. I had this coat made so I could carry books and materials with me. The pockets are rather deep.
[He sticks a hand in one to demonstrate, the depth of the pocket swallowing up his forearm before he retracts it, but he still reaches out to take her coat, placing the fruit inside carefully.]
But this is a better way to carry them so they don't end up bruised or damaged. We want them in the same condition we found them. I wouldn't hold out hope for anyone else's rationality. I'm surprised there are two of us. It's a point against you being real. A real person would tell me I'm overthinking or suggest we go fight something.
[Most people were of the type to demand action before information, to Linhardt's eternal annoyance. He falls into step behind her, keeping his own careful count of the steps, tapping his leg with every stride and putting a finger down after every 100 strides.]
Hmm?
No. I'm sorry.
[ She wouldn't have asked such a specific question if she hadn't hoped for a specific answer. The name means nothing to him, which can't have been the answer she'd wanted. ]
I've never heard of Lumière. I know you're not from Fodlan; you would have recognized me. So either you're from a part of the world we're unfamiliar with or from somewhere else entirely. Is Lumière a city?
[ They'd been isolated for so long. Linhardt doesn't know much about the outside world: Fragments of books and notes held in Abyss, the occasional merchant presenting objects to him knowing of his fondness for the unknown. But the glyphs on the woman don't look like anything Linhardt has seen in any of studies. If it is a language from his world, it's one from so far away he doesn't know they exist.
But they still might be able to figure out which is the case.]
no subject
[ And since there is no singing, no voice (for now), then the reasonable explanation is that the fruit and the water - and the potential promise of freedom - are all equally possible as some kind of trap. She keeps her bundle of fruits balanced, though Lune's gaze drifts to the pockets of his coat. Not much thought had been given to his garments, but the fact he could fit so much...
Books and materials. She'll need to circle back to that. But for the moment, she only shrugs. He's free not to trust her; such a thing is in short supply here. ]
If we have to fight something, then we will. [ Namely, whatever created this illusion. ] But running in headlong is foolish.
[ And she's lost enough on this damn expedition to want to avoid more, if possible.
Lune lapses into silence as he speaks, measuring the word. Fodlan isn't somewhere she's familiar with. Is there more past the Continent? Beyond the Monolith, maybe on the other side? But she hadn't seen anything. Her frown is pensive, contemplative. ]
It is. It's hard to miss it, as it's by the Crooked Tower. [ The Eiffel Tower, as a matter of fact, not that it's called that or that he'd know. ] It's enormous, a metal structure that's been dragged down to one side. If our cities were close to one another, you'd have seen it.
[ But, again, then she would have heard of Fodlan. And him, apparently, if that was true.
What is going on? None of this is making sense. ]
no subject
[ What would anyone who could make a place like this, and who could take their magic away, want with them? What could they do that this originator could not? If their assumptions were correct, then at least they could act without the immediate response being hostility and death. If they are 'needed', then killing them would be pointless.]
I'd rather not fight; I find it distasteful. My own disinclination aside, anyone or any being with any form of combat training is going to dispense of me rather easily. Without my magic, I would be a liability in any battle, not an asset.
[ And he's guessing the same is true of her. She doesn't have any of the tells of a trained soldier or combatant. None of her bearing or muscle development suggests it: No small favoring of one side to account for a dominant hand, her legs don't suggest someone who rides.
Any fight wouldn't be much of a fight at all. Gathering information and running would be the prudent strategies given the situation.]
I'm unfamiliar with the Crooked Tower. You say that it's made of metal? Is that possible?
[A building built entirely of metal? Could that be real?]
Fodlan is a continent. There's no Crooked Tower on it. Which means you must be from the other side of the world. The other end of Dagda or Almyra perhaps... regardless, I'd quite like to see this Crooked Tower.
[ It sounds interesting. What other buildings could be made with metal?
Linhardt looks over his shoulder in the direction of the fountain, then at one of the trees nearby, and then back at the horizon. ]
The horizon looks precisely the same.
no subject
Lune's shoulders lift in a faint shrug. ]
My experience says they'll try to kill us. [ Sorry, Linhardt. ] Or simply try to keep us in stasis, unable to act.
[ Which is equally horrifying, if one considers the implications.
The emotions that work their way through Lune's expression are fleeting: confusion, wariness, cycling back into thoughtfulness while she tries to follow these threads. He's never heard of her city, hasn't seen the Crooked Tower, but then she's never heard of these places either. She wants to say something more, to press him further - perhaps he's seen the Monolith, and that would be large enough to be witnessed everywhere - when Linhardt speaks up again.
She pauses, casting her gaze back in the direction they've started, and she frowns. ]
...And they don't look particularly closer than we've started.
[ Walking the path may lead them to circle back around or they may just continue, on and on, and become lost. ]
no subject
[So the woman likely isn't a projection of his own mind. No portion of Linhardt's mind would consider this stasis something to avoid. A rest of indeterminate time for which nobody could fault him? That does not sound bad. If he can't act, then whatever happens isn't his fault.
Linhardt isn't good with emotions, and this woman is a stranger. One that he's coming to respect. So while he watches the feelings flicker across her face and part of Linhardt feels he should say something, he doesn't. If she wanted to talk about her feelings with him, she would. Were he to guess, Linhardt would assume she misses her home.
He feels... ambivalent about Fodlan, and thinking about it isn't going to change anything. He hasn't been gone long. (Has he?) Surely, everyone is still alive. They have to be.
It's easier, better to shove those thoughts away and turn his attention to the questions in front of them. Linhardt nods.]
Exactly. I wonder... if we were to face the fountain and walk backwards, would we see it growing smaller and vanishing? Or would it remain in place? The fountain is the most distinctive feature of this place. I think it would be the easiest to use as a visual landmark.
no subject
[ It might also simply be easier to let someone die of their own accord. Keep them transfixed on something until they stop thinking about hunger or thirst, or the inevitable desire to get away. It's possible they just haven't found the 'spider' yet in this specific scenario. And not finding it isn't the same as it not existing.
Bleak of her to think, but she's seen enough oddly formed Nevrons to not want to take her chances.
She pauses and considers the option, the thought of using the fountain as the basis for the experiment. And there's a short, resolute nod that follows. ]
Let's try that. Don't lose your count just yet.
[ She wants to be sure they can compare initially, at least. ]
no subject
I always thought the web cocoons seemed rather cozy, but I'm in agreement that I'd prefer to avoid experiencing the liquefaction aspect. Although I do wonder how it works...
[There are two of them.
Linhardt lacks the woman's focus, but he's as easily brought back to task as he is distracted. He turns backwards to face the fountain, committing the number of steps they've already taken to memory, and then starts walking backwards, continuing to count both mentally and using his hands, fingers, and knuckles to signify the number in case they need to stop.
There's something bothering him, but it takes him some time to think of it. As he walks, step after plodding (and carefully measured) step, his mind finally picks it out.]
If we're being pessimistic...
If I were to set a trap for myself, I'd set up a lot of irrelevant variables to set myself chasing after. How do we know we're not doing exactly what our spider expects?
no subject
Lune makes a little sound in her throat that's clearly displeased. ]
I'd like to skip that kind of scenario...
[ The spider cocoon and all.
There's a brief lapse of silence as she does her own calculations, all the while still holding the fruit they've collected. Her gaze remains on the fountain once they've, summarily, started to test that instead. And it does get further away for a time as they go. But once her steps start to number higher and higher, she sees it's only getting so much smaller in scope, and that's all the answer she needs.
Not even taking into account Linhardt's concern. It's here where she pauses, scowling. ]
It would make sense. [ Unfortunately. ] If I was going to trap myself, I'd like to do the same: set up minor, inconsequential barriers just intriguing enough to get me to investigate. Get me spinning in frustration.
[ The confusion is likely the point. Then despair, when there is no way out, or not unadulterated answer. It's a clever trap. To act is to disorient; to do nothing is to be complacent. Her sigh is biting, irritated. ]
no subject
[Endangering himself for knowledge was one thing, but one of the terrible things about war is none of the deaths mean anything. His wouldn't be any different. It occurs to him only afterwards that this is the sort of topic one is meant to have emotions about. He does, somewhere. He thinks.
It's harder to know sometimes.
Joining the woman in checking their bearings against the fountain, Linhardt sighs a resigned sound of his own when it eventually stops getting smaller.]
I'm somewhat offended they don't make the illusion last a little longer. It feels insulting somehow.
[Couldn't they at least pretend that the intricacy of the illusion mattered? They weren't trying to trap or deceive Caspar. They could put some effort into it.
He finds he has an odd desire to raise the woman's spirits. Or, more accurately, that there's a part of him that doesn't like seeing her frustrated, understanding entirely too well what it feels like to have one's entire experimental foundation go askew. But it isn't for him to do, even if he had any confidence in his ability to do so.
What he can do is think aloud.]
If that is the case, then I think the best action to take would be to do something that ordinarily we would not. If this place is planned around our past behavioral patterns, we break the patterns.
no subject
I don't know how much you'd learn and be able to pass on if you were dead by that point. Are you implying you've nearly bled out before, or nearly burned to death?
[ It's not as though death isn't around every corner of the Continent, just one Nevron away from a mortal injury, but the way he says it makes it sound so...normalized. She files it away for later, something to be curious about when she has more time.
Instead, she has to bob her head in a quiet nod, agreeing with him. She hooks a corner of her bottom lip between her teeth to worry at it while she considers, grateful that he's speaking his own thoughts aloud. It allows her to run through her own theories, find what lines up, what doesn't. ]
The illusion is flimsy enough to require repetition but still seems firm to the point that breaking it would require more work. It's also not responding to us on an individual level. Nothing here so far has struck me as familiar enough to me that I could say the illusion is plying its reflection only from myself.
[ So, to go against the grain of what she'd usually do... ]
If we're to break the pattern, then for me, it would be to eat the fruit and drink the water here. Or to simply...stop trying to find an answer.
[ Which seems unacceptable. But perhaps there will be a fluctuation in the magic and the illusion, and they can take advantage of it then. ]
no subject
***
I'd learn before I died. There wouldn't be much point in passing anything on. There's nobody here to learn. Even if there were, odds are they wouldn't care.
[ Linhardt wouldn't be shocked if, if he did pass, his notes were used for kindling. His mother might object, if she knew, but out of emotion, not out of any desire to continue his work. Hanneman might care. Linhardt makes a mental note: When he awakes, he should be certain his work is delivered to the older man and not left to rot in a box.]
Yes. They're unpleasant experiences; if you haven't, I recommend avoiding them. I would be lucky, I doubt you would be.
[ He would either die quickly or heal, but he's seen the results of what happen to people without healing Crests. The burnt and scarred soldiers trickling in to the infirmaries. The long, drawn out suffering.
He prefers this orchard and its questions. Despite the woman's pessimism, they don't know that this place seeks their death. It being an open question is preferable in some ways. ]
We don't know that the illusion requires repetition. The creator may simply be lazy. You're likely correct, but we can't be one hundred percent sure.
[ More like 60 to 70 percent. Hence it being worth mentioning.
Linhardt nods at her words and gestures at the fruit she's been carrying.]
I would offer to do so myself, and I will, but it wouldn't necessarily be out of character. Neither would doing nothing. What would be out of character for me is not a preferred option.
[As the only actions he would refuse to take reliably enough to be considered worth planning around would be pre-emptive violence and not acting to preserve his life. Whether the woman is real or not, he doesn't want to attack her.]