TDM 001 ● JUNE 2025

[uruz]

TDM: ONE

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PRELUDE

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


You’ve had this dream before.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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YOU CAN THREAD THE NEEDLE

(content warnings: sensory manipulation )

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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THE DAYLIGHT RECEDES

(content warnings: grief, loss, emotional vulnerability)

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

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

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

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

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EVERYTHING WE LOVE RESETS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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EVEN WHEN WE RUN WITH DEATH

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

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

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

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

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

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


“What have you done?”

The world begins to scream. You begin to fall.

The dream is over.

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NOTES

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

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Comments

even when we run with death. —Act 1 spoilers within likely!

[demainvient]

[ The urge to look up, to look at Her and let Her take him over, feels like being caught in an endless dragging tide. It comes in waves, ebbing and flowing, but it's never truly gone, he's never truly free of it. It's as insidious as a lover's whisper, as domineering as a shouted command.

Gustave resists, eyes cast stubbornly down behind the blindfold he can no longer seem to pry from his face. He fills his palm with the familiar grip of his sword and spins his pistol into existence, tucked tight against his chest, and fights.

(He's exhausted. His body remembers the sensation of pain and the horrible swallowing weakness that followed, the sticky fabric of his blood-soaked uniform. He doesn't know how he got his arm back, and he's too wary of its sudden reappearance to try calling the lightning. But he fights anyway.)

The voice comes in the middle of a sweep of his sword; it stutters, and he has to leap back to avoid a slash of claws, dripping ichor and wickedly sharp. He knows that voice. ]

Lune!

[ Another slash of his sword and the thing's head rolls; he stands a moment, chest heaving, looking around for the source of it. ]

Where are you? Can you send up a flare, give me a sign?

oh yeah, totally gonna be spoilers. also BONJOUR

[tache]

[ The moment she hears that voice reverberate down the connection, Lune's heart stutters to a halt. This... This is a trick. This has to be a trick, some kind of conjured memory that wants to pull her out and leave her vulnerable. Gustave will feel it in that intertwining, a sudden ricochet of emotions: shock to hope to grief to anger, faint, like tiny pinpricks between them.

Of all the people for her to hear, this surely would be the one to force her to drop her guard. ]

You can't be here.

[ It leaves her thoughts without her consent, her heart thundering through the pain. Some part of her wants to believe it, wants to cling so tightly to the hope that she isn't alone. But this has to be a trick. And in the middle of everything falling apart, she can't afford to be deceived.

Lune grasps that connection even as she's running, looking. If she can find him, then maybe she can find the deceiver. (Maybe she can find Gustave.)

She calls out again, more focused this time. ]

Who are you? [ Demanding, wary. ] You can't trick me into believing you're Gustave.

BONJOUR MON AMI also I owe u a meme tag but fuck it we ball

[demainvient]

[ The deluge of emotions that come flooding down this strange connection between them feel a little like what he imagines the Nevrons must experience when Lune rains destruction on them, multiple elements all striking at once. Some of it he understands — shock, grief — but the anger sparks an annoyance of his own. ]

Lune, putain—

[ An exasperated mingle of French and English filters through the connection, accompanied by a cocktail of emotions of his own: hope and blade-sharp longing to see his friend and frustration, along with a flush of real anger and aggression when he turns to see another strange, four-legged thing with too many tendrils where its mouth should be, baying as it runs toward him.

He has no idea how to convince her he's real, and that he could also very much use her help, and the creature gives him no time to think before it's leaping for him. He holds his ground, squeezing off a shot that hits it in the chest and sends it yelping into a collapsed heap, and rattles off a hurried thought along the connection that has somehow sprung into being. ]

You grew up with Tristan. You love viennoiseries almost as much as you love protocol.

[ Come on, Lune. Who else would tease you about clinging tightly to protocol, the way you are doing in this exact moment. ]

Just in case I am Gustave, you could help me out with some of those putains d'sparks of yours before I have to shoot these down on my own all day or get pathetically eaten. Your choice.

you are so good don't even worry about it (p.s. spoils all the way down)

[tache]

[ The retort is automatic, another shiver of annoyance, but at least this one is familiar: like she's rolling her eyes at him. ]

I don't love protocol--

[ Merde. Merde, that's him, isn't it. She tries to smother the emotions threatening to well up and across the connection between them, but he'll feel something, the emotion as whisper-fine as a veil: hope. Hope that this isn't a trick. And whether or not it is, she has to seek it out. Has to seek him out, because one way or another, she needs to get her answers.

From where she is, she surveys her options, and heads for a rocky outcropping that will give her just a bit of height. And there, she starts to draw. Whatever this power is, she isn't sure, but she can almost see the words in her mind's eye. Light, circle, boundary.

She can work with that.

There's silence down the connection, though her presence (for lack of a better word) remains. And then, in the distance, a shot of lightning poised at the sky. He's not overly far from her, perhaps a quarter of a mile at most? But the crack through the air and the streak of light have absolutely caught the attention of more monsters. The few that aren't engaged with Gustave presently are turning in that direction and Lune needs to make preparations for them. ]

They're headed my way now. Keep going, I'll hold them down until you get here. There's a rock formation, you can't miss it.

[ With ink-stained fingers, she's drawing long slices of runes she's never seen before along the outcropping. Boundary, bounds, something. She knows and doesn't know, and it doesn't matter. If she can keep them directly off of her while she starts burning them to cinders, that's all she needs to do. And while she's waiting, that's exactly the plan: pulling up some kind of warded bounds they cannot cross, and for her to trace sigils in the air for fire as she scorches anything that gets too close. ]

[demainvient]

[ Even while leaping back out of range of a shambling, evil-smelling something, the tiniest quirk tugs at the corner of his mouth at that exasperated response. Lune, it's Lune, and he knows he'll pay for that sparks comment later but it was worth it.

She hadn't been there, on the cliff. She and Sciel were already safe; she didn't see what happened. She was spared that. She was given that weight. He knows how he would feel if he'd been helpless to come to her aid.

But he isn't helpless now, and a fierce delight that's tinged with something that's almost pride goes flickering along their connection as lightning cracks through the sullen, heavy sky from a spot not far away: she has the high ground, of course. Protocol, once again, but there's no time to comment on it as curious heads turn, the lightning casting a moment's stark pale light over too many mouths and teeth and tendrils and limbs.

She's not far. He extends his left arm, sighting along it, and squeezes off another shot that takes a newcome monster in one rolling, bloodshot eye, and breaks for the rock outcropping, running fast but without the exhausting burst of speed that comes with panic. His energy isn't boundless, and there are Nevrons — no, not Nevrons, whatever the hell these things are that hold no chroma and seemingly no intelligence — swarming. And above all that, the bloody sky, and Her, and her siren song.

His sword flashes in a streak of chroma, slicing across the belly of one monster and taking the legs of another as he makes it to the bottom of the outcropping, chest heaving with effort, his hands sore from where they grip his weapons. One particularly nasty figure is lumbering close to the path upwards, and he launches himself at it, slashing once, twice, three times before sliding out of the way again. It totters, hurt but not dead, and in his way. A perfect target. ]

Lune! Now!

[tache]

[ With the barrier up around her for the moment, she's just barely able to keep the monsters at bay. She watches something like glass crack under the weight of their onslaught, biding her time. Her fingers are quick, precise things, drawing in the air. It's instinct for the moment, symbols in the eye of her mind, and she's keeping a (careful) eye on the horizon for Gustave while she goes. Just a little bit longer.

She sees one coming for her, suddenly interrupting by the sickening slice of flesh as someone else arrives. There is no time to feel the relief, the hopefulness, the elation at seeing his familiar figure running for her. Instead, she snatches the rune she's forming and points it directly at the monster he's felled. The lightning sparks out and shocks the creature, its shriek filling the air just before it collapses. ]

Shoot them, get them off the barrier for just a moment--!

[ That's all she needs, just a few more precious seconds. She's drawing the next rune, fire, holding back another lightning strike until it's absolutely necessary. Each one produces too much light, too easy to spot, and they'll be sitting targets for more if she keeps it up.

The barrier shatters, a many-armed creature bounding through, reaching for her. Lune barely manages to dodge the strike and she looses a gout of flame at its face(?). It shrieks, stumbling back, not dead. ]