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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!
iii
Wowee.
[He rushes over to where the guy's landed and offers a clawed hand out to help. It's not like he can judge that landing very much, after all. He hasn't even bothered trying to fly with the big, pointy leathery things jutting out of his back just yet. Too much other stuff to worry about. Like horns, or the fact that he doesn't even feel like he's done yet.
Anyway, more important stuff to deal with.]
I saw you fall, [he says, just in case it wasn't obvious there was an audience.] You okay?
no subject
Freddie Lavoie has always been fortunate enough to have the sort of complexion that doesn't easily flush, but he can still feel the heat of his own embarrassment rising to his face as he takes the offered hand despite its clawed digits and picks himself off of the ground. The new wings are more sensitive than he always assumed birds' wings were; he can feel that they're dirty, and it's not really pleasant. He also probably looks a little ridiculous. So awkwardly, jerkily, Freddie ruffles his new feathers in a partially successful effort to shake off some of the dust from them before introducing himself with an awkward smile. ]
Just my pride. Would you believe I'm a pilot?
[ It doesn't elude his notice that this guy also has wings—how could it—and there's the immediate impulse to ask if he's figured them out. One thing at a time, he decides, especially because he's not sure if his wings actually work based on how they're shaped and the lack of feathers—they look almost demonic, or dragonlike, like you'd see attached to a very literal representation of Satan in a pamphlet being handed out by Southern Baptists, and even knowing that this world is some kind of a dream, he can't turn the mind of a pilot, and the background in physics, on and off at will. It would really suck if he was stuck with those and couldn't even use them. ]
no subject
Well, yeah. You don't even have a cockpit or anything.
[That's an important part of being a pilot, he knows that much. It's not like he's a pilot himself, but he's pretty good a knowing the various parts of an airplane, and he knows Dethklok's pilots will let him go look at any of theirs whenever he wants. So he's got pretty decent knowledge of the whole ordeal, and none of it involves having wings actually attached to your body or anything.]
You can't, uh... pull on the things.
no subject
[ Freddie quirks a brow in sychrony with the upward twitch of one mouth corner—but it's genuine amusement, and perhaps also a level of relief at the evening of the playing field, as opposed to laughter at the other guy's expense. He seems decent. ]
You mean the throttle?
[ He mimes the motion, grateful that he's kept the hands to do so, even in this form—he's seen a few people around who weren't so lucky. There are... any number of things to pull on in a plane, depending on the plane—flaps, control stick, et cetera—but he figures this is what would come to mind for most people. ]
no subject
[He moves his hands like he's miming pressing a bunch of buttons or something. Look, it's not like he knows the name of every little thing in there. He's not flying the things, after all. He knows a little more about construction than the rest, which probably isn't useful when you're talking about stuff the real thing actually does.
But he's right!! You can't pull on the things!!]
It's gotta be different when you're, uhh... when stuff's on you, and you're not in it?
no subject
[ Freddie regards his newfound wings again, now folded back behind him as opposed to extended in a frantic effort to buffer his fall. His beautiful, useless wings. And tailfeathers. Considering all of the plain brown birds in the world, he certainly could have done worse.
He glances back over at the interloper, nodding toward the wings at his own back, decidedly different in morphology, almost more like a bat's or something. They appear to be more of a membrane than solid flesh and bone. ]
I'm Freddie. You figure those out yet?
no subject
[Gotta do the whole nice introduction thing, to make up for what he ended up witnessing. He turns his head, trying to get a better look at his own wings.]
Uh... I don't know if I can move them enough for that yet. They're... really new.
[He spreads them out a little, although that's about the best he can do at the moment. They're dark and a little bony around the edges, but if he's some kind of demon guy, then surely he can fly once he figures them out, right?]
But I wanna try sometime!
no subject
[ Freddie gestures, now with his featherless arm instead of the already-tired extra limb resting folded behind him on the same side. ]
I could look at them though, if you can stretch them out. We might be able to figure out if they're even built for flight. Assuming the rules of this place match the rules of the real world.
[ Things like lift, thrust, drag, all of the forces he's spent more than a decade continuously interfacing with. Based on the fact that there's still gravity here, and wind—and what he felt during his own brief, botched attempt at flight moments earlier—he tends to think that it's all still at play. But he's also grown wings, which decidedly does not happen in the real world, so the truth might lie somewhere in-between.
At least it'll make him feel useful. ]
no subject
[It's hard to really purposefully move his wings in any meaningful way. His brain's not exactly prepared for two fresh limbs moving around with the rest of him, and his first attempts mostly twitch the things, which isn't much help. They're long, hard to describe as much other than "demonic," and it takes him a good few tries to even stretch them out.
Eventually, though, he manages to get the "spread" signal to go through, and they cooperate, stretching out to allow a closer look. They might very well be able to provide flight eventually.]
Wowee... It's really hard to move these things.
[He hopes that isn't a sign he won't be able to use them, because otherwise... well, they just get in the way, don't they?]
cw internalized fatphobia
[ He hears what he says about the difficulty, but it takes Freddie a moment to return to the conversation—the smooth planes of flesh spanning between each long pole of bone are fascinating to look at, like a canvas glider, and already his mind is moving in a thousand different directions, trying to decide how these would best work, how they would interface with all of the forces he's familiar with.
But he does, eventually, return to the conversation after his moment of awe. ]
It is. I don't think we have... I don't think they come with the necessary muscle tone already included. [ He doesn't embarrass himself by agreeing that he's already tired out too, which he would offer up without a second thought were he still in the Air Force, thinner, visibly in shape. Now it could just be attributed to letting himself go.
Freddie takes a few paces around to stand at his side, studying the expanse of his new companion's wings with a trained eye. ]
They look like they'd be good for gliding. You could probably ride the wind without flapping, if I had to guess. Not sure these can do the same thing. Most birds can't.
[ His luck. Flying is going to be exhausting in a way sitting in a cockpit isn't. ]
no subject
Buuut there is still a conversation to pay attention to. He nods, focusing on keeping his wings spread. At the moment, if he doesn't think too hard about them, they start to fold. He'll need to get used to all that, especially if he's going to do stuff like fly and glide and all that other fun wing stuff.]
Ohh... that sounds really fun.
[He is 100% thinking loop-de-loops. Feasible? Who cares, he's thinking about it.]
Birds are really good at flapping. Maybe you can figure out what birds know about stuff that makes them good.
no subject
[ Frowning, he glances over at his own wings, which, as Toki's want to do, have folded at his back, their ornamentation now mostly hidden beneath mousy gray feathering. ]
It's just a matter of figuring it out physically. As you saw.
no subject
[That's probably helpful for planes, sure, and then you get the added benefit of kind of knowing what to do if you happen to grow wings all of a sudden. While Toki knows a lot of conflicting stuff about demons and the like... well, nobody ever gave him a lesson on anatomy.]
So... you should get really good at it if you already know all that stuff.
[The best he can do with his own knowledge is stuff he learned from Dethklok's various pilots and what he learned about planes through osmosis from building models. Still... it'll probably be fun to figure out.]
no subject
So, thanks, Toki. ]
Yeah, I hope. Assuming we don't, like... wake up from this. This is a dream.
[ He has to keep saying that, like repeating it enough times will stamp out the traces of doubt gradually spreading in his mind like crawling ivy. But every sensation here is so vivid, and while the alternating English and Québécois French is a common feature of his dreams, the clarity of feeling and the sharpness of every detail isn't. And this is also dragging on far longer than one single dream usually does—one cycle of REM can only be like, what, an hour long? Before a new dream starts, or before the dream halts and picks up again?
And that hasn't happened. ]
no subject
[It's easy to forget the whole dream thing with how realistic everything feels around here, even if he's had plenty of realistic dreams himself. But he's also like... not sure. Because when dreams happen, and you know it's a dream, isn't that when you wake up? And he hasn't done that part. This isn't any of his usual dreamscapes either. While he's heard there's a way you can know you're dreaming and just play around like that, hell if he knows how.
That could bring up another idea, though. He squints down at the ground in thought before looking up again.]
But... maybe you can be really good at it anyway? Because it's a dream? So... you just have to think you're good at it.
[It's easier said than done, though. He's still having trouble moving his own wings in ways that he wants to. That might just be the whole having trouble telling the difference between real and dream problem, though.]