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!

network ᛗ logs ᛗ ooc ᛗ memes ᛗ navigation

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Comments

QUESTIONS

[uruz]

➤ TDM related questions can be asked here. General game questions can be asked on the faq.

INVITES

[uruz]

➤ Interested players who do not have mod invites or a friend to get an invite from may comment to this top level to solicit one. If you recieve an invite, head on over to the mod invite page and fill out the form here. The mod will get in contact with you privately to approve the invite. Please keep in mind that soliciting an invite does not guarantee one.

<b>Player Name:</b> <b>Contact</b>: <b>TDM Top Level:</b> <b>Previous RP history:</b>

Maelle | Clair Obscur: Expedition 33 | Spoilers for Act 3 in All Threads

[descendre_encendres]

[OOC Note: Hiii, this is jenetequitteraipas with the actual journal now. This is an Act 3 Maelle, please don't spoil yourself. I beg u. I have an opt-out but I do not have an invite to the game. If you have any other questions or concerns, please feel free to pm. ♥]

Spoilers for Act 3 are Inevitable

i. Un. You Can Thread the Needle: A blood-orange fruit with velvet skin

[From the fruit, her voice feels like an echo. The sounds and voice in her head vibrate like a cat's purr. It's calming, reassuring. Should she distrust it? She doesn't try. She easily agrees, reaching outward for something, someone.]

ii. Deux. The Daylight Recedes: Gustave

[She catches a glimpse in the corner of her eye. A notebook settled on the ground, worn and well-used. She knows the name written upon it and reaches to take it, never a wonder or doubt in her mind how it got there. It belongs to her now, maybe she dropped it. But as she touches it, as her hand grasps it's familiar edges she hears an impossibility in her ears.]

Gustave?

[It's near a whisper when the words escape her, before she lifts her head, her eyes searching, darting around her. He's gone, she reminds herself but then who is that ahead of her? The journal that was on the ground, she clutches it to her chest and follows the silhouette. It can't be him. She hasn't fixed things yet. Lumiere is still...

But he's getting away. What was a walk becomes a jog then a sprint. Why can't she catch him?]

iii. Trois. Everything We Love Resets: Set Me On Fire

[Within the voice she feels betrayal, her heart sinks and plummets. She's made a mistake, she's messed up again. The thought doesn't simmer for long before the world feels warm. It is no comfort, it is overwhelming. Heat surrounds her and engulfs her until embers glow around her, on her skin. With any movement she makes, any flail, any swipe, the embers ignite into flames until she's encased in them. Everything feels impossibly hot but all she can do is scream.]

iv. Quatre. Even When We Run with Death: See No Evil

[Like a child she fights against their words, their encouragement, their pleading. She's realized now something is wrong, something isn't right. And she is refusing to give in, if she can. It's a weak attempt. She shuts her eyes, covers her ears. It borders on 'if I can't see them, they can't see me'. But short of risking that insatiable fire, she doesn't know what else to do.]

v. Cinq. Wildcard

[Feel free to wing it or pm if you'd like to sort out something specific!]

ranni the witch | elden ring

[deathstealer]

[ ooc: small disclaimer. ranni speaks in a way I can only describe as gently shakespearean, and since I know some people find that hard to read, I have both eased up a little on the shakespeareanisms, and done the whole 'elden ring dialogue is delivered format-wise like poetry with frequent linebreaks' thing, because that makes it easier to read. hopefully?? ]

✘ ⸻ thread the needle

[ At first, there is a light. A star, a void, a dark moon, a something that any nearby eye is simultaneously drawn to and repulsed by. To look upon it feels nauseating, to behold such power feels bone-rattling.

And then it sighs; and resolves into a woman sitting on a low branch in the orchid.

Under the moonlight, her skin is a gentle powder blue, light reflecting harshly off her porcelain skin. The white mask conceals much of her features, but a second face of starlight is conjoined to the first, a spectral eye and mouth and jaw watching the world. She has two pairs of hands folded in her lap, a great furred cloak and witch's hat making her look bigger than she is. She glances up at the moon, and if one pays close attention, one might see a split second of sadness in her features before it's replaced with curiosity. There's an unatural stillness to her, a lack of motion associated with biological beings. No rise and fall of the chest, no idle movements.

With one questing hand, she plucks a silver-veined citrus fruit off the branch she's sitting on-- and is swamped by triumph.

The triumph of rebellion. The blood-soaked satisfaction of necessary murder.

She'd dwell in the feeling, if not for seeing the expression of someone nearby who is clearly sharing the same emotion. It doesn't take a witch to understand what is happening. ]

Ah, forgive mine intrusion.
Thy confusion is clear.

[ Her voice is low, husky, polite but but sharp. ]

It seems this fruit causeth more problems than its worth.
But still; might we revel in this sensation for a minute longer?

✘ ⸻ daylight recedes

[ After the orchid fades, Ranni finds herself in a place she is certain is the same, geographically, but stripped of the dream-like sensation that granted it such a beautiful orchid. There is nought but grass and forgotten items; a stagnant but pretty land, the sort of place she is entirely familiar with.

She is not daunted. She has been pulled from eternal doubt and fear and loneliness, a life among the stars-- yanked back down to an earthly presence. Bereft of her cause. Her purpose. Her dark path. But she perseveres.

Crouching down, Ranni unearths something from the dirt. One pair of hands digging through the soil to reveal a half-melted candle, the other pair steepled thoughtfully in front of her. Contemplatively, she walks. The sound of porcelain and metal feet is soft against the grass and soil, clicking only occasionally against a small rock. She moves as if gliding, real and spectral hair both shifting in the breeze. There is someone walking next to her as they idly follow the strange figure. She still cradles the candle in her hands. ]

I was pulled from the stars; were thee also robbed of purpose?
Or is thy existence only now lent meaning?

[ There's a sly amusement in her voice. ]

T'would be a fine way for a destiny to start.

✘ ⸻ even when we run with death

[ That red, bleeding moon is one of the worst things that Ranni has witnessed.

The two moons in her own land were peaceful. Beautiful. Still, and powerful. Her own dark moon had been distant and cold, but logical, brimming with magic. Her mother's full moon had always been a light to guide the way on a chill night.

This-- this is an abomination. This cracked, weeping thing that spills out tendrils like rot. This baleful eye that hangs in the night sky like a wound. It is so terrible that Ranni can scarcely look away. It is only when she feels the creeping claw of something other that she yanks her gaze downward, too canny and too studied of magic to be immediately fooled by what she is certain is another god. She is no stranger to bizarre deities.

Not long ago, strange pain had wracked her doll body, an impossibility as she is constructed of porcelain and metal and not nerves. And now, a bright halo shines behind her head, a slice of white-blue moon. Ranni has resolved to study it later, should there be a later.

The land around her has grown worse still. She stands as a silent beacon, red light circling the brim of her hat, idle despite the creatures that stalk this landscape. She can hear them speak occasionally; rabid whispers that she turns a deaf ear to. ]

Close thine ears to this trickery.

[ Her advice comes urgently to the closest person she sees. The spectral face conjoined to her mask-covered face looks serene, fireflies of energy drifting from the former like snow, but there is the faintest hint of trepidation to her voice. ]

Avoid their touch. Avoid their whispers.
Nothing just or fine could cometh from beasts who wouldst dwell under this bloody moon.

[demainvient]

Question about the masks! Do they come off at any point so characters can see each others' faces? Do they have to be physically removed or would they fade somehow?

[scowlish]

I saw on the FAQ that characters don't bring items from home. Can I ask what they're wearing when they wake up in the orchard?

Sunny | OMORI

[sadpoem]

((ooc: please check out his CWs before continuing; also, Sunny is almost entirely silent, so expect very little dialogue!! <3))

1 - you can thread the needle;

[Another dream. Sunny has painted this landscape before, color splashed on a black canvas. He sees trees and sky stretching out in every direction, and there's nothing out of the ordinary. The only thing Sunny might notice is that there aren't any watermelons among the many handsome fruits. No matter. He'll pluck one from every branch anyway, placing them in the makeshift sack he's created from his vest. He approaches someone, familiar in that way that those you see in your dreams can be, and thinks to share a fruit with them. He holds out the vest, displaying the many choices inside. Will you partake?]

((ooc: if you feel like shaking things up, rng which fruit your character chooses >:3c))

2 - the daylight recedes;

[He comes across something in the landscape. It's half-buried in wet soil, only a few raindrops away from becoming mud. He crouches down beside it to get a better look, brow subtly pinched over his eyes. He worries. Anyone nearby might sense it through the murmur, that anxious hesitation. His hand reaches for the object - a Polaroid camera - with trembling fingers.

[But he can't quite get himself to take it.]

3 - everything we love resets;

[Sunny's bones don't break, but it feels like they do. He feels pain like he's only ever imagined, blood boiling in his veins, needles threaded through his skull. He can't breathe, so he can't scream. Whether he's balled up on the ground, writhing, or lying perfectly flat, still, he can't tell. All he can do is wait for the mask to overtake him, to become whatever he's becoming.

[Eventually, it all fades into white noise. Sunny thinks he's sleeping, or maybe waking up. His heart is still beating too fast. He opens his eyes, and he can still see. The world looks different...

[At some point, he'd found his way to the ground. He sits up, looks around. A small "?!" appears above his head, stark white, then disappears. He doesn't seem to notice.]

4 - even when we run with death;

[Sunny isn't fast. He isn't strong. He's spent the last four years, locked in a room, existing only within the confines of his own mind. His body is thin, frail-looking, too small for his age.

[He doesn't stand a chance - not against monsters like this.

[The boy runs, and it's a pitiful display, tripping over shadows, scraping his knees on the ground as he tries to scramble away. It's not a matter of if he'll be overtaken, but when.

[And the poor thing can't even scream for help.]

wildcard;
((ooc: I'm open to pretty much anything, so if you have other ideas you wanna hit me with (or network stuff), go for it; u can hit me up for plotting via journal pm or @ pantheraliam o vo7))

[sadpoem]

Player Name: Panthera
Contact: pantheraliam
TDM Top Level: here
Previous RP history: here

Toki Wartooth | Metalocalypse | ota

[dethangel]

[A. THREAD]

[Toki's always had a particularly active imagination, and of course that flows right into dreams. This one is... different, though. A different voice from the usual family or friends, and now that the apparent nightmare part is over, a setting he hasn't really visited.

He walks down a path, peering at the trees surrounding him. No candy and rainbows, no icy forests and creepy villages. Maybe that's why he's not really getting the fact that it's a dream right away.

The trees are pretty and the fruit is definitely enticing even just to look at, so as he passes by one he particularly finds interesting, he reaches into his pocket so he can take a picture with his phone and send it to someone.]

Huh... forgot my phone.

[So instead of taking a picture, he grabs it right off the tree: a weird glowy thing that kind of looks like a heart. It's cute. When he bites into it, it's pretty messy, so when he notices a presence behind him, he turns, looking way too "bloody" for what comes out of his mouth next.]

...Do you wanna hold hands?

[B. NETWORKING]

[Toki reaches out to that weird vibe that's trying to connect him to his surroundings with a very, very important question.]

Where's the bathroom?

[C. RESETS (the body horror option) (daemon and wraith)]

[Okay, Toki's been wandering around for a while now, and now that everything's all messed up... well, that's more like it, isn't it? It's not his usual brand of nightmare, but it's still typical. He has more important things to worry about than the scenery, though.]

Fuck!

[He falls to the ground, clutching his head as a pair of horns works its way out of his head.

But maybe that's not all. Maybe after he's fully transformed into some variety of demon creature, it resets. It happens again, only this time he's back to normal, except he's not.

Now he's on the ground for a different reason: he's dying, and it's starting to show. He reaches out for assistance, groaning softly. Maybe he even grabs a leg if someone gets close enough.]

Help?

[D. WILDCARD]

[i figure since it's a dream thing toki'll probably be pretty understandable so he doesn't have to fight with english. totally willing to have him change offering types as many times as necessary before i fully decide on one too. wanna do something else? bring your own prompt, plot with me, or ask for your very own starter here or at agentkaz!]

[guidingbookworm]

According to this question on the faq, "during dreamscape events (which usually double as tdms), players do have the option of playing with canon abilities at a reasonable level, since it's essentially a shared dream and we're given a bit more flexibility with the setting at that time." Am I correct that this applies to the tdm?

lune | clair obscur: expedition 33

[tache]

[ ooc: No spoilers in the top-level and options here, and I will not be posting spoilers in any threads unless they come up with castmates! Those will be appropriately marked (or obnoxiously hidden under cuts). Also, I am good for brackets or prose; I'll match you. PM me if you want a targeted started! ]

---

prelude to the needle.
[ The dark rises up and Lune is falling.

Falling, ever falling, weightless and hollow, in petals that are suffocating. She is desperate and terrified and angry, and no voice that beckons can hold her back from the inevitable. Yes. Whatever is happening, it can't be the end. She won't allow it. Just another chance--

And she awakens in the garden, hand out stretched for nothing, bare fingers cresting over warm grass. Getting up feels challenging, her fingers brushing over something that drapes over her face. It doesn't prevent her from seeing, oddly enough, and it's weightless. With fumbling fingers, she starts to remove it, and then thinks better of it - just for the moment - as she goes to wander barefoot through the orchard at her own pace.

But she can be found later, eyeing the trees warily (as one does), and sitting on the lip of the fountain. She is pensive, tense, and watches anyone who approaches with curiosity. ]

You might want to take care around the fruit. We don't know what it does.

[ 'We' because, of course, others are here too. No one she's recognized just yet, which makes her ill at ease. No one dressed like the people of Lumière, no one wearing an Expedition uniform. She doesn't understand. ]



the daylight recedes.
[ Another landscape, darker than the last. The orchard has vanished, its comfort gone. Instead, Lune walks among a field of old thoughts and memories that feel just out of reach, like some kind of nostalgia for a time she can't recall. There are baskets and urns full of roses, red and white, but no one to give them out; no stalls to house them. Are they from this year's Gommage? Last year's? Ten years ago?

No one's here to give her an answer.

Disgruntled, she says to no one in particular: ]

This is just another illusion.

[ Like the mask, which hasn't taken her over. There's no Axon. Or is there, just further afield, or in hiding? She can't sense anything appropriately, her magic dimmed to silence. Her feet carry her further, to a broken guitar. It's hers, she thinks. Black, sleek, now old and decrepit. But that can't be hers, hers is new. Isn't it? She touches a hand to her head.

And whispered to no one: This is all wrong. ]



even when we run with death. (note: will be alternating between Runecaster, Lightweaver, and Bloodwright / cw: some body horror depending on type)
[ The illusion is gone. Here is the truth. And for all the terror here, all the crawling dread, Lune feels more in control. This is just another cataclysm, another set of monsters. And no matter what's happening to her...

When one falls, we continue.

Her thoughts are cast far and wide to The Network, not caring what comes along with it: the steely determination, the spike of fear. Let people feel it. But a message comes with it - ]

"If you need to, run. Find somewhere to hide. Those of you who can fight: help where you can. We need to regroup and keep away from these things."

[ Nothing good can come from them, after all, and she's not about to find out what happens when one gets close enough to touch.

Lune doesn't know what's become of her body, of the stains on her fingers, of the hum of magic that now courses through her. It's not recognizable and doesn't feel in tune with the Pictos on her skin, not anymore. But she isn't a child any longer, unattuned, uncertain. She'll stand and fight regardless. ]



wildcard.
[ Want something else? Pick a different prompt, change it up, or PM me for a closed stater. ]

Maria Renard | Castlevania Nocturne

[summonbeasts]

[ooc: i'm still trying to decide between beastkin and shadowbinder so i may use them interchangeably.]

[I] YOU CAN THREAD THE NEEDLE;

[The same dream, night after night after night, like a moment stuck in time that won't move on. She woke up far too many times gasping over it, drug out just before the darkness falls. In some terrible way it reminded her of when she had reached into those darker parts of herself and let the power swallow her up whole.

Then one night it finishes. She expects to wake up again with sweat on her skin and fear coalescing into a lump in her throat but tonight it that dark wave finally crashes into her, fill up her senses and drag an answer out of her she never meant to give to such darkness.

She all but staggers into the orchard itself with her senses reeling over everything. The grass, the trees, the scent of fruit in the air -- Maria reaches a hand up to her head to brace what she thinks must be a headache coming. Instead her fingertips meet the edge of something smooth, something she knew was there to begin with but only now recognized it as something foreign. Something she ought to want to remove.

She ought to but she doesn't.

She speaks in an exhale, voice slightly shaky.]

What is this?

[Not just the mask. Pick a topic -- the wave, the orchard, whatever. What is this.]

[II] THE DAYLIGHT RECEDES;

[The orchard is there in one moment and fades to nothing in the next. Things jut from the ground and for a moment Maria can't help but bend to reach for one of them. It glitters through the dirt, the reflection of the pale light off of it calling to her.

Once she brushes away the dirt though Maria realizes it's not what she had half-hoped and half-feared it was. It's a mirror, the shards barely held together by it's frame and her visage splintered between them all near unrecognizable.

Her breath comes out in a low, slow shutter of a sound that feels loud against the otherwise quiet.]

[III] EVERYTHING WE LOVE RESETS, EVEN WHEN WE RUN WITH DEATH;

[A] [In one instance Maria writhes where she stands, her hands palming and clawing over the mask on her face with an almost feral intensity. She certainly can't be overlooked or blocked out with the way she's screaming up at the split-open sky.]

STOP! STOP THIS! I WON'T!

[It's not doing much good of course, no amount of yelling is going to force the change happening to her to halt. Instead the shadow she's becoming, the one bleeding out of her and streaking across the ground around her, it reacts. Violently. Tendrils snap and whip and writhe like Maria herself does. The darkness crackles like the banked embers of a fire.]

[B] [Then at one point when the shadows calm and recede Maria's writhing comes to slow halt. Instead of dripping in shadows she now turns a glance towards someone, anyone slightly nearby. Behind the trio of holes in the mask where her eyes must be is a glimmer of light much like the nightshine cats bear.

Her breath comes in big huffs as her shoulders slump. She's obviously been fighting something and it makes more sense when she rasps out:]

She is ... very insistent, isn't she ...

[A bit of gallows humor?]

[IV] WILDCARD;

[Feel free to hit me up for any other ideas you might have. PMs as well as Plurk (goodluckstarfighter) are both open for plotting.]

[summonbeasts]

Player Name: Starfighter
Contact: PMs or Plurk (goodluckstarfighter)
TDM Top Level: Here.

Previous RP history:
Muselist.
I've been out of formal game RP for the last few months until this month. Most recently I played Mai (maipokerface) in Labyrinthum and Iyashikei and Alice Malvin (a_noble_flame) in Kenos. My longest played character was also Alice Malvin in Empatheias. Currently I play Sarah Williams (notimefordreams) in Pixie Led.

miles upshur / outlast

[walriders]

YOU CAN THREAD THE NEEDLE.

[ Out of the weirdest things that has happened to Miles in his life, he's unsure where he would place ending up in a random orchard in a world he hadn't exactly agreed to join, but also... had? It's pretty damn high on the list all things considered. The asylum probably remains at the top. Possibly. He looks around, sees the people surrounding him looking around in a similar fashion, and it makes him want to join them in their investigation of the area.

As he wanders around looking at the various plants sprouting what looks like various types of fruit, he finds himself fixated on a glowing plum. This was the last thing he expected to see - fruit can glow? - but he's trying to convince himself to be less surprised about things as he goes along.

What does shock him is his hand reaching for it, pulling it off of the tree, tossing it between his hands. ]

Could be poisonous... [ It's a small mutter just to himself. If there's anything he's learned, it's to be wary. But still, he can't really help it — he takes a bite. Chews. Swallows. Wants. ] What the fuck?

[ He looks around. Eyes fixate on one person. ] Hey. You tried this thing?

THE DAYLIGHT RECEDES.

[ Miles leans down briefly, touching the grass that sways beneath him. Almost like he's trying to find something in between the blades, the journalist within him coming out easily. There's nothing in the grass but there's plenty to look at just further away, and he finds himself walking there, stepping in between beds, music players, candles. It's the napkins he finds himself interested in.

As he picks one up and reads through it, he's almost disappointed to find that it's just a declaration of love, a reminder of someone's devotion to another. He was hoping for some information instead, but he supposes something is better than nothing. It's dropped back where it was found as he looks through more of the items spread around the area.

He ignores the voice whispering to him. Or tries to. It keeps talking to him about all those he encountered at the asylum. Walrider being the most prominent (and it makes him question where the being is. There's something buzzing beneath his skin, but).

There's someone walking. He doesn't follow, but finds himself stood next to another. ]

Find anything interesting here? Or helpful?

EVERYTHING WE LOVE RESETS.

[ It hurts. It hurts. The mask is dragging into his face, fusing with his bones, metal replacing where skin once was. The fingers he used to have are in pain, even if they aren't actually there. Cracks roll down his arms, lighting up in a faint glow, and how the fuck is that even possible? It shouldn't be. But neither should it be possible to be dragged into another world. Maybe this is his punishment for Billy Hope. Maybe this is another of Murkoff's tricks.

He hopes so - then he has a chance to escape.

It ends. Eventually. ] Holy fuck.

[ All that deep breathing he'd been taught did nothing. Pain still shoots through his limbs as though it were still happening, and he has no idea what has happened. His teeth are grinding together. Should probably not do that.

He's on the ground. Can't move. ] I never want to do that again. Jesus.

megumi fushiguro | jujutsu kaisen

[potentialman]

i. thread the needle
[ He was dying, wasn't he?

Everything that happened in Shibuya is running together, one long night of desperation and blood and mayhem. There were fights. His energy had just about run dry, once he'd gotten caught up in that domain clash with Dagon. Then that stranger had put a weapon through him. He'd managed to deflect it enough, he's pretty sure, so it hadn't hit anything vital. But then the swordsman who'd been killing the assistant managers had taken a stab, and that one he's almost certain did hit something —

— and then he'd called Mahoraga. That's right.

Death seems an awful lot slower than he'd always figured it was going to be, doesn't it?

Megumi's not sure what else there is left to do, but wait for whatever nonsense his hazy mind has dreamed up to stop, slow down, and let him go. So he wanders the orchard, pausing here and there to look up, holding up a hand to feel the nonexistent breeze that somehow still has the leaves astir. His fingers graze a fruit.

Well, why the hell not. He's dead either way, but maybe he can at least go with the taste of something other than his own blood on his tongue. ]



ii. daylight recedes
[ Most of the objects scattered through the field don't capture Megumi's attention. He looks past bouquets, candles. Faded photographs. Things that ought to be meaningful to someone, though maybe not to him — or are they? He shakes his head, as if to try and jolt the intrusive thoughts out of it.

The thing that finally catches his notice is a crumpled piece of paper. He kneels to scoop it up, unfolds it and smooths the creases so he can read it.

A receipt from a bet made on a horserace.

Why should that matter? ]

...stupid. [ Megumi lets the scrap of paper flutter to the ground, and turns to move on. ] I don't care.

[ Something in him still feels like he should. ]



iii. we run with death
[ Even without a name for the creatures that are stalking the surroundings, moaning and chanting and reaching to grasp at him, this is still the most sense anything has made since this dream (nightmare?) began. These things aren't curses, or at least not curses as Megumi's familiar with them, but the similarities are undeniable. The sense of corruption, of wrongness. The body horror. The dogged attempts to drag anyone in reach down with them.

Whatever is going on, however he got here, he's still a jujutsu sorcerer.

He knows what to do with curses.

Megumi puts his hands together, intending to make the hand seals for his shikigami, but the shadows don't coalesce into the familiar forms he's used to. Instead, the shadows themselves surge forward, snaking around the nearest creature like a network of vines, pulling it back from him and holding it to the ground, restricting its movements.

That's not how he meant to do it, but okay, sure? ]



iv. something else?
( If you've got another idea, I'm probably down for that too! PM or atkascha if you want to hit me up. )

[walriders]

Player Name: Sam!
Contact: leyline @ plurk
TDM Top Level: here
Previous RP history: I've been RPing for about 14 years now, have previously played various characters in Eudio, El Nysa, Entranceway and Riverview, alongside various sandboxes that I've been involved in. You'll find me posting in various memes around bakerst. as well!

[shatteredlenses]

The canon point I am playing with bringing Ignis in from means he will arrive in game freshly blinded. Would it be possible for him to sporadically mentally see/get impressions of any of the things going on around him thanks to the Murmur and his connection to other Vessels?

the forsaken | oc

[aeviternitas]

thread the needle.  ∞    

A figure stands between two rows of trees, head turning slowly to look between the different strange fruits. His hair is loose, long enough nearly to trail the ground. The hem of the robe he wears, white, thin and draping, drifts against the grass with the breeze.

He cannot remember the home of the gods, anymore. Trying conjures only muddled images of green. When he looks, now, peering through the weave, he sees only dead grass and trees gnarled with decay. It has been as long since he has seen the realm of humans in person, too. So now, in a veritable forest of trees laden heavy with fruit, bare feet in lush grass, the Forsaken is in awe, staring at the green leaves as they dance even without wind as if it is just for him. Each fruit, unfamiliar as they are, seem all equally enticing. That this is a dream is plain, but he cannot help himself. Even if it will taste of nothing, as he expects, the scent is dizzying, impossible to resist.

CITRUS 🍊 He reaches with both hands, standing on tiptoe, to select a citrus fruit. He plucks it delicately, as though it might shatter with any amount of force. Then, he pierces the colorful rind carefully with a nail, and peels it away from the plump segments of fruit inside.

It is only when he finally realizes someone is nearby that he looks away from the fruit he holds in his hands. Without thinking, he parts the fruit in two, and offers one half with an expression one might almost call dazed. When he takes that first bite, the emotion that swells is not gratitude or joy in tasting fruit for the first time in centuries. Instead, it love - the kind of love that evokes safety, belonging, peace.

The man does not look pleased or comforted at such a feeling. Instead, he freezes, the contorted look on his face suggesting he does not know what to feel.

PLUM 🍎 A plum - or what he thinks must be a plum - draws his attention. It is warm and seems almost to glow with the sunlight. For a moment he admires it and, finally, sinks his teeth into it. The taste he might only describe as sumptuous, the sweetness coating his tongue. With each indulgent bite, a strange sensation grows. Isn't there someone...?

He turns, gaze drifting over the figures that he shares the orchard with. Then- yes, that person. He walks slow, crossing through rows of trees, moving with a mindless purpose. The pit forgotten on the ground behind him, he savors the little left on his fingertips. Finally, he stops before one of the other visitors. Yes. This person.

Behind the mask he has yet to truly register, he stares. The juice of the plum, sticky with sugar, lingers on full lips, glistening and staining them a dark pink. He reaches not only to take a hand, but to cradle it in both of his, to turn wrist and palm and touch each curve and line of it.

everything we love resets.  ∞    

The scene around him is at once strange and familiar. The decay is different, but it is still decay. Above him - behind him? - a voice commands him. The mask on his face is suddenly heavy, constricting. Must he know only confinement and restriction? Something begins to shift, then.

Those also with the misfortune of being in this rotted landscape will find a man on his knees, clutching at his face and clawing at the mask that surely must be the cause. At first, only he changes: his skin grows paler still, then his limbs becomes altogether transparent, only to become visible again in fits and starts, like the flicker of a guttering candle flame. Then, the landscape itself changes, bleeding outward: coarse sand and marble pillars that were surely once grand, but have long been reduced to rubble. Scents and sounds out of place cut sharply in and out; some familiar to him, some familiar to those nearby. He groans with a voice his own, and a voice that is not.

He notices nothing but his own agony - the pain is not a blade, but suffocation, leaving himself bereft of all sense but that of struggling: struggling to breathe, to remember, to be. He is a man who needs help - or a man that provides an unaware target.

EMP post for reference/plotting/etc.! / character info

you can thread the needle; cw: mention of hallucinations & death

[opheliac]

[jinx had been sitting here underneath the orchard for what felt like hours. and it could very easily be that long, given she had lost her sense of time somewhere down the line. as well as the fact that she had been remarkably motionless, her gaze settled on the fruit she was holding. and she doesn't seem to look the man's way when he approached the tree, either. one could argue that maybe she was also captivated by the luminous produce. but it's when he speaks that the bluenette finally takes notice; she slants her head only slightly in his direction — studying him cautiously as he partakes of the fruit.

she continues her silence when questioned, and the teenager simply glances back down to the orb in her hands. slow but sharp, she digs her fingernails into the fruit — the juices leak along her digits, and it drips and soaks onto her lap. what she is feeling in her clutches feel real enough, but everything else beyond herself and this fruit feels so... fiction. and who is this man addressing her? another one of her hallucinations? it's quite possible, but she doesn't remember killing this one unless he was one of the countless enforcers. wetting her lips first, she parts them to speak — her tone extremely hoarse, like she hadn't spoken in days.]

No. [jinx thought to say nothing else beyond that, but then reconsidered.] ... Lost my appetite.

[vixenish]

Building on this—even if your character doesn’t want to take it off, could they, if they so chose?

Lortel Kehelland | The Extra’s Academy Survival Guide

[vixenish]

[ I. you can thread the needle ]

[ Lortel will wander amongst the trees, fingers barely alighting on fruits and branches. She seems to be humming lightly to herself, glancing at this fruit and that.

Eventually she’ll approach you—her hands, now holding fruits, are hidden behind her back. She smiles coyly and says: ]

Left or right?

[ II. tethering/the network ]

[ How strange, this odd mental … sensation. Connection? Lortel whispers across it, in a voice no louder than your thoughts. ]

What’s your deepest, darkest secret?

[ III. everything we love resets ]

[ If the transformation is painful, she does not show it. If she hates it, if she’s frightened, if she wants anything but this—she does not show it.

Burning blood and cool wisps of magic fill her veins. And with them come gleaming eyes and a set of animalic features: a fluffy fox tail and curious, fox-like ears that swivel this way and that.

Looking over her shoulder, touching her hair, she sighs. ]

I’m sure it could be worse. What a strange dream I’m having…

[ ooc; feel free to wildcard your own prompt or plot with me at heartfuls! ]

[vixenish]

Player Name: Em
Contact: heartfuls or skywardlii on discord
TDM Top Level: here
Previous RP history: I’ve been in DWRP since the move from LJ. I took a hiatus of a couple years but recently came back and currently play in Iyashikei. I’ve played in a lot of games—Awash, Recolle, Cerealia, Ruby City, CDC, Thoughtformed, Luceti. I just played this girl here in a murder game called The Locked Place.

iii. spoilers all the way down but vague (also cw: body horror)

[tache]

spoilers and things eventually

[ Lune knows that scream. It's a sound that makes her stomach drop and her heart plummet, and even in the midst of her own pain, of fingers burning and splitting open at the edges, she's instinctively looking around with wide and wild-eyed panic. ]

Maelle. Maelle?!

[ Her head moves this way and that, scanning.

And she sees the fire. Lune pushes herself to her feet and closes the gap between them. Her hands are already moving to reach out, to grab her, trying to douse the flames. No magic springs to her call, no ice, no healing... Dammit. ]

I've got you. Just hold on, I've got you--

[ There's magic in her now, thrumming under the surface. It isn't enmeshed with the Pictos on her skin but it'll have to do. She reaches out with it and blood, of all things, responds to her call. A gasp escapes her, and she pulls away. Once more she tries, the blood trying to commune with the fire, trying to still it. ]

thread the needle

[tache]

[ The woman in blue would draw anyone's attention. She's certainly captured Lune's in the moment. She stands alone nearby, her eyes on the trees and the fruit, clear distrust written across her face. There is hunger and there is not; there is thirst and there is not. She is awash in the memory of emotion and sensations even as her body still feels weightless and wrong.

All of this feels wrong.

So seeing someone partake of the fruit at least gives her the opportunity to see what happens, even if her heart gives a little lurch of panic. She should warn the woman, but it doesn't seem warranted. Not in the moment. What Lune expects is poison or something worse, like a curse; instead, she's the one suddenly awash in feeling, in memory. The thrill of battle, of a great calamity conquered. The knowledge that things might be okay. That she is alive.

...But she hadn't even touched the fruit.

Lune exhales when spoken to, finally stepping closer. ]

So I'm not imagining it. You're feeling this too.

Prelude to the needle

[sleepfan]

((OOC: I'm in Act III at the moment, so spoilers up until the end of Act II are alright!))

[ In a dream, there is no wrong way to go. No urgency. Linhardt wanders through the orchard, vaguely moving towards the center without conscious awareness.

Stopping in front of one of the trees, the young man runs a hand up the shimmering trunk, fingertips slow and careful, cranking his head back and watching the leaves move with a look of curiosity and then, as he continues to watch, consternation, his eyebrows coming together and his mouth frowning slightly. The leaves shouldn't be moving that way; there's no wind to guide them. The trees, and their fruits, are wrong. They're all too similar to one another. Even magical trees differed from one another, and every fruit that Linhardt sees is not only perfect, but identical.

An idea occurs to him.

He reaches out to pluck one of the reflective fruit, motions delicate in case it's not as robust as it looks. As he's holding up the fruit to try and use its mirror like properties to catch a glimpse of the mask covering his face, Linhardt is startled by someone speaking behind him, and he drops it on to the ground.

It's strange to see someone and not feel them. After turning, he can see the woman sitting on the fountain's edge, but she has no more discrenable life energy than a bucket. He feels blind, despite being able to see her clearly in the daylight, sitting on the fountain.

She's not wrong.]

Maybe it's a gullibility test?

[ The woman has what are clearly linguistic markings strewn about her body. What language is that? He's never seen anything like that. Perhaps it's some kind of pictographic language? Or some form of cipher? But why would someone have a cipher inscribed on their skin? His eyes linger on the glyphs for a moment before he catches himself.

People don't like being stared at.

Linhardt forces himself to make momentary eye contact. ]

Do you think this is a nightmare, then? That this place is dangerous?

[Is she some manner of oracle? The one downside to dreams is they don't work on any form of logic. Often what one feels is what's important. So perhaps since she seems like an oracle, she is one.]