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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
pinches herself, and gives him a rather sardonic look when nothing happens ]
no subject
He spreads his hands in front of him, not quite an apology, but a silent peace offering nonetheless. ]
Then, we are here for the time being. Shall we walk? I would hear of home for you, if you have no objection. [ Unless she wants to try another fruit, there appears little else to do in the immediate vicinity. They hadn't much luck with the first one, so he doubts that suggestion would be preferable to her. (As delicious as it was, he doesn't want to risk surfacing anymore emotions he does not want to feel, much less in front of another person.) ]
no subject
Oh, alright. [ she tucks her hair behind her ear, examining him once over again. ]
… hm. And here I don’t even know your name.
no subject
I am called the Forsaken.
[ The air with which speaks is as though that is his actual name, not a title - and a strange one, at that. ] What might I call you?
no subject
her eyebrows raise at his name, but she doesn’t say anything immediately. It does sound like a title, but the way he treats it… how curious. ]
Lortel. … where do you come from, that you want to know about my home?
no subject
It makes little sense, and without realizing, the god's lips purse in puzzlement.
Distracted, his head turns towards her, the faded eyes behind the mask not quite seeing. Where he...? Ah. It is only fair, he supposes. His voice loses some inflection, flattening as though distancing himself from the very thought of 'home.' ] A place small and still and stagnant, naught but ruin.
no subject
Is that why … were you forsaken there?
no subject
The god smiles, empty, a facsimile of kindness and grace as they walk through the lush and laden orchard. ]
It is my purpose to guide those forsaken like myself. From my home [ — The word fits wrong, like ash in his mouth — ] I am able to help. But I cannot leave, so I enjoy hearing of what others have lived.
no subject
[ Lortel dips her head, finding a veil in her hands; when did it get there? how? it matters little—she puts it on with a sigh, only her eyes still uncovered. ]
Hm. You help the forsaken…
[ if that’s so, where was he when she was a child and her parents were dead?
she smiles a little. ]
I’m a student, you see. At Silvenia Academy, the finest in the empire. I study in the magic department. I also run a little business on the side. I like to keep busy.
no subject
There is no divinity left.
[ Gods, yes — not like there were, once. But there is no divinity in blackguards like they. Now, it is the two of them, separated by the weave that parts realms. He wonders if the Scholar were Lost, would he find his way to the Forsaken?
...Now there is a thought. But how could it be, in the endless days of centuries, he could not be lost, even once? Vexing, for more reasons than one.
The Forsaken smooths his robes, and sweeps his absurd length of hair over one shoulder that neither dip into the fountain as he sits on its edge. ] Magic... what sorts?
no subject
She wonders, endlessly, exactly who he is.
Lortel sits beside him on the lip of the fountain, carefully tucking her skirt beneath her before she reaches out and brushes a hand through the water.
From that fingertip, ice darts out like bolts of lightning, snaking across the surface of the water until the fountain is filled with ice. She removes her hand, and immediately the ice begins to break up, little floes churning this way and that. ]
I use elemental magic. Ice is my specialty.
no subject
The impulse is not one he recognizes until he has lifted a cupped palmful to his lips, and tasted the water. Clear, crisp. There are no feelings of first love that spring unbidden, this time. Instead, the scenery behind the Forsaken is abruptly, entirely different. Sand stretches out, the distance only interrupted by a heavy fog. Marble pillars long crumbled by time remain here and there, and precious little else.
The image is gone as soon as it had come. The Forsaken, gazing at his now wet hand and puzzling the odd compulsions this dream - place - whatever it is - cause. He decides to not examine it now. ]
Ice magic. [ He is sure she is not one of the gods - he would remember. But neither can he account for magic. Certain humans were gifted, but those gifts were nothing like this. The Forsaken smiles. ] A fascinating talent, indeed.
no subject
She sees, too, those bitingly endless sands. It takes her breath away, and she’s glad when the vision is gone. ]
… it isn’t terribly unusual, where I’m from. Though I will say I’m particularly skilled. [ her voice doesn’t ring with pride, but there’s no modesty, either. She states it like a fact. ]
I’ve been thinking… since I woke up, really, that this is somewhere else. That we’re all from somewhere else, and we were drawn here. Why, how, I don’t know. Though I intend to find out. I’d like not to stay.
no subject
A curious notion. [ Carefully neutral. He is still full convinced it is a dream. The one unequivocal, unchanging truth of his existence is that he cannot leave his realm.
...Unless a god has returned, somehow, or the earthen mother has awoken and freed him.
But that can't be, can it?
The Forsaken seems distracted for a long pause, gaze somewhere distant over the other's shoulder.
Perhaps- perhaps he too, would like to find out. He seems to gather himself, wherever his thoughts took him, and clasps his hands loosely in his lap with a smile. ] How might you suggest we go about doing that?
no subject
[ assuming there’s anyone to talk to. ]