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

[sleepfan]

[ Is this how most people feel when they talk to each other? They understand exactly what the other person is saying and what they mean? It's obvious to Linhardt. This discussion is so much easier than other people he's talked with.]

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?

[tache]

[ Two of them.

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. ]

[sleepfan]

I don't know. It would at least be an interesting way to die. I'd learn something. Quite preferable to bleeding out from an arrow or a stab wound, or being burnt to death.

[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.

[tache]

[ Uh, buddy? ]

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. ]

[sleepfan]

((OOC: I finished this morning! ;-; And I feel so bad for Lune and Sciel in both endings. Also I was wrong about the muse I'd pull from the game. It's not Sciel. It's Clea...))

***
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.]