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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
Is that him? If I find him, I'll tell him you're here.
[ Cursed? Can demigods be cursed? Apparently they can. Linhardt isn't certain why that would be a curse: If someone looked like a child, nobody would expect anything of them. In some ways, it would be quite lovely.
Even Linhardt knows that would be the wrong thing to say. But saying nothing is apparently also wrong judging by her reaction. Touching her would be unwise, although he's concerned she's going to hurt herself.]
I don't think they can come off. You might hurt yourself. I understand it's wrong, but if we rip it out, we might cause more damage. Try to breathe. Inhale.
[ The young man does so himself, taking a deep breath. ]
Exhale.
[ And out. Try to join him. Inhale. Exhale. ]
no subject
[She looks around a bit, but the illusion is over her, and it's so bright, and then it's gone, and she knows it's only her own power that's illuminating the surroundings.
The confusion does not help, or she'd be more apt to tell him helpful things like thank you and but Miquella won't help me, he abandoned me. Still, she isn't allowed to fall too far back into her own upset - and with good reason, as Linhardt's words do get through to her. They remind her of... well, a bit of her elder siblings' gentleness, when she - no, when Miquella was actually still young. Before everything happened.
Instead, she follows his directions. Inhale. Exhale. It's hard to try to get her breathing under control, not when it wants to stutter and sob, and her mind wants to spiral out of control again with the idea that she's just another puppet of an Empyrean, now. Just like Marika. Just like Malenia.
Her hands release their death grip from the corners of the mask, but she doesn't lower them, staying curled up in a ball, but slowly, it starts to look more like she's slumping forward than curled protectively. Like she no longer has the energy to hold so much tension.
Gods, but she can't even retreat into sleep here, either. They're already in a living nightmare.
Inhale. Exhale. Focus on that.]
no subject
Just now. You turned into a boy with blond hair. He would have seemed to meet your description.
[ He keeps his voice calm. Level. Almost emotionless, but not quite completely flat. Linhardt is far from the kindest healer, but he's been with enough soldiers coming to after horrors to not be surprised by the girl's reactions. To know to stay steady and calm and let them be as they need to be until they get their bearings.
At least the breathing seems to be helping? It's something, given Linhardt is missing any tool that might help. He's magicless here. Or he was. The glyphs dance under his skin, and, like the girl, he feels something different. Living inside of him in a space meant for a part of himself.
Not magic he would trust to help. And he doesn't know anything about this place, so he can dispense no advice.
But he can sit with her. She can stay in a ball. That's fine.]
I would tell you that it will be alright, but I don't know, and I don't want to lie to you. However, I can stay here with you until you want me to leave.
I am also frightened. I am simply too spiteful to display the emotion openly.
no subject
[But he won't be here, he'll never be here, he'll never help her again-
Deep breath. Breathe out. Really, she should be better at managing all of this, but it's so different when she is the one suffering.] It's... maybe because I keep thinking... about him.
[She's not sure what her magic is doing, because none of this is sleep-based, and thus she has almost no experience with it, but that's her best thought anyway.
If she was in any other mood, she might have burst out laughing at his last quip. Some part of her whirling mind does swing through the thought of, he'd get along well with the other demigods, though.
A few more breaths, and at least one or two little micro-surges of the doubt and fear of her isolation, and she is able to sink back down a little bit more. Now she really just wants to sleep.]
... It's becoming a nightmare. It will... likely... get worse before it gets better. And then we'll awaken.
[To what? She has no idea. When? She has no idea. She gives a soft groan, and this time, instead of clawing at her mask, she rubs gently at the edges where the purple-blooded scratch marks are still scabbing over. When she pulls a hand away, her fingertips glisten with it in the dim light.] I'm... my apologies. This should not be... your burden to bear.
no subject
[ Whomever has put them here and done this to them still doesn't control their thoughts. They can make the land as barren and desolate as they want; that doesn't stop them from remembering good, pleasant things. The first taste of a warm sweet bun. A nap cozy in bed on a chilly autumn morning.
It helps. To remember things like that.
Linhardt finally opts to sit, the crouch becoming burdensome on his legs, and tilts his head slightly. A nightmare?]
Do you think so? There isn't enough death for this to be one of my usual nightmares. I suppose that might be the 'getting worse part'.
[He sighs, deeply. Of course it will be. She sounds so certain. Maybe she's an oracle.]
You don't need to apologize. You're correct that you're not my responsibility, but if I left you, I'd feel poorly about it. And likely spend the time stoking my own worries and panic, which I don't think would assist. I'm glad you seem to heal quickly, as I have no assistance to offer.
[A healer without healing magic has little to offer.]
It's a blessing yours still functions. I've had a bruise on my shin since the orchard and it's quite annoying.
[And not something he's used to. Linhardt is all too familiar with acute pain: He's spent too much time on battlefields for it to be otherwise. But the small, every day pains of life aren't part of his usual experience. He's ordinarily surrounded by healers, sources of energy to heal himself, or, if the worst comes to worst, sleep ordinarily tends to his small pains.]
It's akin to marching with a pebble in one's boot. For hours.
no subject
[She takes a moment, then uncurls a little. Her muscles protest the movement, overused and locked into the one position they had been in for such a long, tense moment.]
It's a dream... I shouldn't be able to harm myself like this at all. [How confusing, but ultimately a smaller piece of a larger puzzle.] Nor should you be hurt...
[By the time she has slowly worked her muscles out to allow her to start sitting up like a normal person, the bleeding has mostly stopped, but the wounds remain, red and angry and scabbed.
Good thoughts. Good thoughts. Miquella used to be one of those, and she can still feel the heartache his memory brings, but that isn't good and especially right now.
How about... her lilies. She always loved the lilies that were named after her. She closes her eyes.]
I can try to think of something more pleasant, though. How about...
[The little purple water lilies flicker, light visibly bending until they appear, solidly for only a short time before they disappear again.
It's surprisingly meditative.]
There. I've had experience with light magic before, but this is different from even that. Have you been experiencing something as strange?
no subject
[It is difficult to predict lucidity, but Linhardt is far from unfamiliar with the experience, and he understands what she means: Dreams have their own strange rules, and they aren't being followed. He does get hurt in his dreams, but it never remains that way, especially after he switches locations. The persistence and the reality of the bruise gnaws at the edge of his mind.
But nevermind that, because the girl puts on a beautiful display.
Flowers.]
How lovely; I've never seen lilies of those color before. Could you do me?
[He can't help himself; his curiosity is too strong. Does it have to be someone or something she knows well, or could she make a stranger, like him?
Nodding, Linhardt reaches out an arm and pulls back his shirt, revealing the strange glyphs that are on(?) his skin as well as the darkness of his fingers. The ink staining is odd but not bothersome; it isn't as though he hasn't found himself in a similar situation before.
He considers her question, head tilted slightly.]
I feel... there's something missing. I can't feel you at all. However, there's also something new. I can sense something, but it doesn't have to do with you at all. Or life. There's an awareness of...something...
[He peters off, frustrated and defeated. If only he could go to sleep.]
I do wonder if the glyphs are related to the changes.
no subject
[But that's a conversation for a later time, probably. There's a lot to think about during their conversation, so she tries to go one part at a time. First, relatedly, the physical changes.]
If your type of magic doesn't usually manifest with runes then... yes, that is... rather curious. I haven't had anything appear on my skin, yet. It's all been... well, mostly manifested in a different external way.
[She stands up a little straighter. Her height belies the youth of her face, but she looks a little older when she's determined.
And right now, she's determined. Creating a light projection of him is a different sort of exercise, and it will keep her mind off her existential crisis.]
But let me see if these newfound manifestations will allow me to recreate you...
[Her brow pinches, and the light shimmers and shifts. It's a bit like drawing a picture with her non-dominant hand; awkward, and with a distinctly off feeling, made even harder by the fact she isn't as familiar with him.
To that end, something that mostly looks like Linhardt flickers in the air near her for only the briefest of seconds before it disappears, and she has to take a moment to breathe.]
... And with this unfamiliarity comes a toll, I see. It's hard to use this magic on purpose, and especially to emulate something larger, like a person.