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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!
everything we love
Sitting at the edge of a still pool of fetid water, she watches those around her with a thoughtful gaze. Some are writhing in pain as they transform, stumbling off to get their bearings. Ranni's own transformation had been blessedly brief, the only result a halo behind her head, a slice of blue-white moon, for all that the rest of her is decidedly un-angelic.
Thus, she is witness to one of the more drastic transformations. A humanoid turns into a fox-like creature before her very eyes, and Ranni watches this with a scholar's eye, one pair of porcelain hands steepled in thought, the other pair folded on her lap. Behind her mask, one lambent blue eye peers out from the eyeholes, unblinking. A laughing scream echoes from the creature's mouth. ]
Great pain thee must have endured, however;
I urge thee calm.
The rotten red moon above us watches ever ceaselessly,
with an eye to manipulate,
and a mouth to whisper foul urges.
[ Her bidding is polite, but edged. ]
Do not fall under its sway any more than thee must.
no subject
She whips her head towards the source of the words in a motion too extreme for her neck's natural range. Though her awful smile remains obscured behind a veil, her reflective eyes are wide and wild as they gaze out the holes of her mask, her tails lashing wildly as she beholds the too-bright source of the voice. The words she manages to shape are no less hysterical than her laughter, and they echo in multiple dissonant layers of Kalmiya's voice.] Calm? Sway— sway?
[Another peal of cackling, this time ragged with an edge of desperation.] No one— no one sways me! [She belongs to no one but herself. Not ever and not now, and the horrible burning sting of her new skin is the proof; this was not meant for her. She was not meant to be here.
And yet. And yet— it feels good. It hurts, it's horrible, it's powerful, it's real, despite the dream and because of the dream. It feels more painfully like her than the body she was born in ever did.
That's why she laughs. What else can she do with such a terrible gift?]
no subject
But then, who is Ranni to urge calm? Perhaps they should all seek a different opportunity. Perhaps, instead of control and calm and acceptance, instead of thoughtful study and observance-- perhaps they should become ungovernable. ]
Fine. Become as a wildling,
throw caution to the flames,
dance as thou wilt,
and spit in the face of this bleeding dream.
[ Never let it be said that Ranni doesn't like anarchy, and a touch of chaos, when appropriate. Certainly, it seems appropriate for the form this woman has turned into; a wily cunning fox. ]
But be sure to never lose thineself.
The voice that whispered of purpose to draw us here,
might just move into any place that makes itself empty.
no subject
Rather than straighten up, the backwards arch of her spine becomes more severe, bowing deeper and deeper as the intrigue in her expression grows. The edges of her form shimmer like heat off of desert sand, rippling across her body like a chameleon's shifting colors, hiding her wave by wave until the top of her head touches the ground and she seems only to be her mask and her tails.
All five tails swirl in a pinwheeling motion over the mask and Kalmiya reappears laying stomach-down on the ground, her face propped up in one clawed hand and her grin so bright and dangerous that the shape of it glows through her veil.] I like you.
[Her tails flick with interest. She hasn't calmed, but she has momentarily found a direction in which to aim the razor edge of her predator's instinct. Chaos speaks to a part of her so intrinsic that it's no wonder the dream has amplified it.] Don't worry. I'm quite full.
no subject
Her reply, when it next comes, is tinged with a playfulness. ]
Ah, no worries of being eaten, then?
I would maketh a poor meal to be sure,
far too much gristle and bone, and a bitter taste besides.
[ A lie; there's no gristle and bone involved. She is a specter haunting a porcelain and metal doll, and it's obvious to anybody with eyes.
She wonders what this transformation means for this woman. Even dreams can change a person; if she returns to her reality, will she still be vulpine? Will she remain like this for the rest of the dream, or will another wave sweep this land and hold her in its clutches once more? Will Ranni meet the same fate, eventually? ]
If thou seekest another meal--
[ She glances in the direction of the strange beasts in the distance, the ones who mutter and whisper and pounce. ]
--or even something merely to howl and bay at,
they would prove to be fine prey.
i'm so sorry
[Still, she's an impulsive and distractible force, perhaps even more so with this transformation. When Ranni indicates the aberrant beasts in the distance with her gaze, Kalmiya's eyes and ears both follow in that direction. From her prone position, she takes in their strange mannerisms. They are monstrous too, but something immediately strikes her as different between them and the new dreamers. It takes only one whisper on the wind, Look at Her, for the iridescent wisps around Kalmiya's body to flare like bellowed flame.
Her fur stands on end as she slinks up to her feet, her shoulders low and the laser intent in her expression darkening. She does not look back to the moon woman, but one ear rotates in her direction, seemingly the part most patient to wait for a response.
The purr has become more of a growl, tight and anticipatory.] And you? Are you in need of a meal?
lmao kalmiya is valid 🙏
but never would I turn down a meal in such waning times.
[ It seems she has finally caught the woman's attention, all the chaos of her new nature and this shifting land parting just enough to render upon her a long, searching gaze. There is an interest there that is curious, a look that Ranni has not received in an eon, but it quickly passes as her attention shifts to the beasts Ranni had motioned to.
She is curious; was that an offer to hunt for her? Ranni's thoughts glance briefly over a hundred memories of Blaidd, the way his wolf ears would perk up with interest when he was provided a hunt. Her beautiful shadow; long since lost to her.
Should she encourage the hunting of these beasts? Ranni has seen them pounce on others, infecting them with some sort of fungus, or another transformations. Even getting close to them might provoke the whispers to burrow deeper into one's mind. Still, it would be a fascinating research opportunity, should she manage to kill one of them. ]
If thee are of a mind to hunt,
beware their mouths and eyes,
from which fetid fungus grows.
Beware, too, their whispers which wormeth deep,
a bid to lose thineself to the thrall of the moon.
she calls it like she sees it!!
No one sways her.
Kalmiya's fingers, now clawed, curl at the ready. Her shoulders tense, her eyes narrow, and her wisps dim as if to prepare for an ambush. She takes on all the posture of a pouncing predator as she sets her sights on some fungus-ridden ungulate that may have once been a deer.
But pouncing, clawing, tearing—that isn't what she knows. It is what she feels, but not what she knows, and for a moment the tension in her body changes, the freeze characteristic of hesitation. There's another growl as this time her conflict is with herself rather than the addled whispers of the monsters.
In one quick motion, she corrects the bend of her back and the slope of her shoulders, winding her left arm up to gather momentum for the prismatic wisps that begin to swirl and coalesce in her hand. When they again become near blinding with brightness, she hurls the colorful collection of energy at the fungal deer with deadly aim and a cry caught halfway between war and frustration.
For her lovely lunar companion, she gets to the point.] Wanna help?
no subject
Both pairs of lips tilt upward. ]
And steal thine kill?
Never.
But aid I can, of course, lend thee.
[ She flicks her fingers, and four long blades of gleaming blue energy form around the fox woman, swirling at the ready, finely shaped into swords. The deer which she has chosen is no difficult game, and four glintblades are overkill. But they are at the woman's disposal nonetheless -- either to shoot out automatically if she gets close enough to their prey, or, if she's particularly clever, to take and wield with her own hands. ]