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peacockstop2025-09-15 09:00 pm
goldmods) wrote in peacockstop2025-09-15 09:00 pm
Entry tags:
TDM 011
【 Thank you for choosing the Golden Peacock, 5-star resort and casino. You are currently registered as a WILDCARD in our system.
We are thrilled to announce that the Golden Peacock will be embracing autumn with a special outing. Current and new guests are invited to join us for a refreshing outdoor experience where participants can unplug, unwind, and connect with nature. During this time, all Watches will be disabled to the most basic functions (texting, calls, checking chip account) in order to encourage guests to disconnect.
Please look forward to two weeks of finding yourself amongst the trees. We hope you enjoy your stay, and have a fan-CAMP-stic time. 】
CAMPING
GETTING OFF THE GRID
As the resort moves into what it claims is autumn, the days grow shorter. The projected sun in the Vale sets in the afternoon, after which a faint chill falls. Then there’s the most excessive transformation of all – a portion of the Vale has transformed into a campground complete with a scenic lake, seemingly overnight. Statues nearby have been dressed up with flannel jackets and suspenders. Folksy banjo fills the air without any discernible source.
A section of the campgrounds have been reserved for tents. These tents vary in size, shape, and supplies. All tents, regardless of quality, are supplied with sex toys and lube. Staff and long-standing guests all agree — pretending to live in the wilderness and 'rough it' for a while is thrilling. This is what the peasants feel like all the time!
A section of the campgrounds have been reserved for tents. These tents vary in size, shape, and supplies. All tents, regardless of quality, are supplied with sex toys and lube. Staff and long-standing guests all agree — pretending to live in the wilderness and 'rough it' for a while is thrilling. This is what the peasants feel like all the time!
HOME ON THE RANGE
Welcome to the Peacock Campgrounds! Nicknamed the Stomping Grounds by long-standing guests. Rustic and right off a sparkling lake, guests will find everything they need to live in the wilderness. Staff have expertly set up fire pits, benches, hammocks, and a wooden shed to act as a tool depository. There's even an outhouse, which is a real novelty to many of the long-standing guests. Do they just... squat over that hole and do their business? How wild!
Unlike previous resort-sponsored excursions, guests are expected to manage without the help of staff. That pile of wood won't be replenished once used; guests will have to go chop down trees and split their own. Food won't magically appear in their tents regardless of rank. Camping is all about living off the land. Though staff make themselves scarce to make the experience feel real, they lurk in the shadows, discreetly providing necessary tools and fixing broken equipment so guests won't struggle too much. It isn't fun if it's real hardship, after all!
Unlike previous resort-sponsored excursions, guests are expected to manage without the help of staff. That pile of wood won't be replenished once used; guests will have to go chop down trees and split their own. Food won't magically appear in their tents regardless of rank. Camping is all about living off the land. Though staff make themselves scarce to make the experience feel real, they lurk in the shadows, discreetly providing necessary tools and fixing broken equipment so guests won't struggle too much. It isn't fun if it's real hardship, after all!
ACTIVITIES
TWO WEEKS OF ROUGHING IT
Camping can't be all about survival. Where's the fun in that? Before 'leaving', the staff arrange activities and events for guests to enjoy. A wooden bulletin board outlines times for group hikes, camping experiences, and wilderness delights. Adirondack chairs line the edge of the lake and a few tire swings hang over the water, tied to strong tree branches. For the first week and a half the weather is pleasant and sunny. Perfect for camping.
At night, acoustic guitars and other wooden instruments come out so that guests can make music around the bonfire. Projected stars dapple the night sky, forming various constellations sourced from guest worlds. The moon enters a different phase each night, shining a gentle silver across the campgrounds. Why not pull your sweetheart in and cuddle beneath the night sky? It's so romantic.
At night, acoustic guitars and other wooden instruments come out so that guests can make music around the bonfire. Projected stars dapple the night sky, forming various constellations sourced from guest worlds. The moon enters a different phase each night, shining a gentle silver across the campgrounds. Why not pull your sweetheart in and cuddle beneath the night sky? It's so romantic.
HOWLING
CALL OF THE WILD
Temperatures drop drastically at night as the camping excursion nears its end. Nights become so chilly that morning dew frosts over, crunching beneath guest feet. Every day the light and its warmth set a little bit earlier. Staff remain elusive and do not provide warmer blankets or clothes for guests, leaving them to cuddle for warmth or find other ways to sleep comfortably during nightly cold snaps.
The moon hits its apex on the final night of camping. Unlike the other nights, this full moon shines blood red. The Vale stills under this ominous sign, silent. Snowflakes begins to fall, spreading an endless clean sheet across the campgrounds. That reflected pink hue is inescapable.
The moon hits its apex on the final night of camping. Unlike the other nights, this full moon shines blood red. The Vale stills under this ominous sign, silent. Snowflakes begins to fall, spreading an endless clean sheet across the campgrounds. That reflected pink hue is inescapable.
OOC NOTES
▶ BLANKET CW: altered states; eyes (descriptions only, incl. eye injury); exhibitionism; hunting (incl. hunting fantasy creatures); orgies; public sex; survival; temperature play; tentacles; transformation; violence
▶ All characters on the TDM are WILDCARDS, which means they have not yet been assigned a card value. Suits will not manifest until characters are accepted into the game.
▶ All TDMs are game canon. This TDM acts as the game's September event. Camping will ICly begin September 15th and end October 3rd.
▶ Current characters may top level on the TDM. Any current characters posting to the TDM should note they are current in their subject header.
▶ The top level directory is for new characters only. We want to make sure new characters are prioritized and receive attention! If you would be interested in a game invitation, you can note that in your comment header.
▶ Smut threads that take place on this TDM can be used for rewards. If both parties in the smut thread join the game, you may retroactively apply the character's initial card values to your 52 bank. If one character does not join the game the thread will not be applicable toward rewards (as that character would not have a card value). The character that does join would still receive a small payout for the encounter. Hopefully it was a fun thread regardless!
▶ We ask you to kindly add content warnings to your threads as appropriate.
▶ If you do not currently have permissions and kinks listed in your character’s journal we suggest leaving a note in your top level of any limits or boundaries for other players to reference.
▶ All characters on the TDM are WILDCARDS, which means they have not yet been assigned a card value. Suits will not manifest until characters are accepted into the game.
▶ All TDMs are game canon. This TDM acts as the game's September event. Camping will ICly begin September 15th and end October 3rd.
▶ Current characters may top level on the TDM. Any current characters posting to the TDM should note they are current in their subject header.
▶ The top level directory is for new characters only. We want to make sure new characters are prioritized and receive attention! If you would be interested in a game invitation, you can note that in your comment header.
▶ Smut threads that take place on this TDM can be used for rewards. If both parties in the smut thread join the game, you may retroactively apply the character's initial card values to your 52 bank. If one character does not join the game the thread will not be applicable toward rewards (as that character would not have a card value). The character that does join would still receive a small payout for the encounter. Hopefully it was a fun thread regardless!
▶ We ask you to kindly add content warnings to your threads as appropriate.
▶ If you do not currently have permissions and kinks listed in your character’s journal we suggest leaving a note in your top level of any limits or boundaries for other players to reference.
RUN PHAINONNN (he won’t OTL
Scared?
No, it would take more than this to scare him, master of an impervious dream, once upon a lifetime. It is what happens upon others, not himself that matters - such is the price of one prepared to lose it all for an ideal. But the lack of control is what confuses him, startles him beyond measure.
He’s used to imposing his will on others, at regretful times, in another life time. He knows what it feels like - it is immense, for it to happen to him instead, to feel his thoughts eroding to something so basally uncouth.
Sunday tries to rear back, to extend the distance between them with what little he can afford. But the familiar stranger only surges forward despite his best efforts. He’s unused to the body he’s transformed into, wings dragging onto the ground in a heap as he tries to suppress the wild urge to grab him, tear him into the ground and-
… Have him?
What?
The intrusive thought is so bizarre to him that he barely settles still. Guilt bleeds out of him in waves, staring at the traces of blood on his claws - as gold and amethyst rimmed eyes stare back into sapphire snowflakes.
Leave. Please. Before- Desperation. Beseeching the stranger as he shrieks again, once more. Claws digging grooves into the forest floor, trembling from the effort. Almost drooling into it.
Oh, Aeons. He wants him so bad it hurts-
no subject
That a single man alone can wrestle with a creature of this size begs disbelief. Rivulets of gold run down from where claws had pierced him; sweat shines on his body, the fibers of muscle standing in sharp relief under the celestial glow; with a roar of effort that tears his throat, Phainon manages to throw the outsized bulk to the ground amidst a flurry of flying down.
He doesn't have Mydeimos's terrifying might - he has speed and endurance, but his arms have begun to shake in the wake of the massive effort he spent to upend the creature. It's better than trying to contend with its claws, or those powerful legs raking the earth.
Phainon's vision reflexively blurs, Sunday's guilty heart as powerfully resonant as the tolling of the temple bells of Janusopolis. With one leg and both arms wrapped around its neck, he throws himself to the ground, seeking to pin down the creature's head. He has no doubt now that this - this feeling, this familiar ache - belongs somehow to the consciousness that still struggles within the beast. Phainon doesn't know how; he doesn't need to understand it. Only to stop it.
"These wounds will heal - they don't matter!" he asserts, seizing its head to fix its gold and amethyst eyes with his own two-colored gaze. "This madness will pass. And I'm not letting go," Phainon shouts, his voice shaking with conviction, "-No matter how long it takes!"
So thrash, flail! Spend up that fury! If it were him, he'd hope someone could stop him before he added to his numerous, uncountable regrets.
no subject
Run. Leave. Flee. Please- If he could speak, the words would intone themselves clearly, bits and pieces of a longing too weak to become a dream. The gryphon's eyes flicker wide as the world turns on itself, driven into the ground. The stranger's strength, non-mortal hands that sunder him back into the earth. He'd almost not believe it, if he wasn't a mass of feathers, writhing in the headlock as it shrieks its confusion, bleeds its resonant howls like Oronyx's echoes in a hollow chamber.
This madness will pass. This madness will pass. This madness will pass.
Until then-
His claws stain gold as he shakes the other man off even briefly, shaking its head as his irises corrupt into bright scarlet. Rolling itself onto its feet, it throws its head back in a rage, wanting to dislodge the mysterious warrior off itself, wings stuttering backwards in drafts.
He doesn't want to kill him, no, but indignance bleeds like an open wound. Lavender-white pinions start to rise in the air, solidly aimed at his aggressor, miniature daggers in their own right as they lock onto Phainon. They don't aim lethally, at limbs, in an attempt to immobilize the quick and the sturdy.
And then, he'll take what he w̸̘̄̐͘͠ȁ̵̉ņ̴̣̤̓t̴͔̳͓̖̐̂̕s̵̢͉͈̠͛
no subject
He's since lost his weapon - a paltry stick of hardwood - he has every disadvantage, and still he rises to his feet. Perhaps a wiser man would flee, regroup, and try again; perhaps he's overconfident in his ability to stand against this creature; perhaps he's looking for a way to go out in one last blaze of glory. The truth is, he isn't thinking so far ahead, he only wants to make sure that no one else is hurt.
To that end...
The eyes he raises to the beast blaze gold, his white hair rippling like flame as heat shimmers in the cold night air around him, like volatile miasma awaiting a spark to ignite. If that's an invitation to yield... he's sorry to disappoint.
"Come! I will spend up your fury," he shouts in defiance, "And meet it with mine!"
no subject
Stalking closer, upending dirt. The stranger reminds him of a dying sun - no, the rising of a galaxy on the side of a planet, crowning zenith of a not-mortal man, with an immortal dream.
A Halovian can hear the song of a person's mind, though he's too disorientated, too unfocused to try - but what he can see bleeds out of them like a haze. Determination, beyond measure. And yet, sorrow, seemingly almost everlasting.
Is he fighting a battle with me, or within himself?
The viscous mockery of it all. The feathers rise ever higher, small blades in their right, before launching in a flurry. It is not a complicated maneuver - he is not a beast of higher function. The ground groans as he charges forward, splintering through forestry and shrub alike.
A cry of deliverance, both.
should phainon regret tanking this? probably. will he? no. what's self-preservation
To take up the duty of 'Worldbearing' is to remember, to lift up, and to burn oneself to light the way for generations to come. It is a duty he shoulders, even as all fall one by one, even as the burden on his back shatters and crumbles. The futility may wear him down, but that spirit will ever burn.
With a great shout, Phainon violently ignites, a human pyre set furiously ablaze for the span of heartbeats; those pinions that had approached close enough to be caught in the localized combustion are incinerated at once, the reek of burnt feathers hanging in the air. Those that tarried just a little behind sing through the unfurling banners of noxious smoke, spraying gold on the ground at his feet. The flames disperse. As the heat dissipates around him, the withered grass curls, blackening.
Phainon staggers backwards, pain registering with a guttural noise in his throat. Panting, he rips a pair of blade-like feathers from his opposite thigh, gripping them tightly in his fist. The ground quakes with the oncoming charge, golden claws raking gouges in the earth, sturdy trunks splintering before its bulk; with a single stomp forward, Phainon welcomes its approach with a wordless shout. A promise, perhaps, to answer that cry for deliverance.
Even bleeding from multiple wounds, he risks being flattened by the great bulk of the beast, yet he defies as though it's all he knows to do. Every blow is another one that won't be leveled on an innocent. Every minute of its fury endured won't harm another.
PLS ITS JUST A STRONG CHIMERIC BEAST NOT SOME GALAXY-ENDING CREATURE PHAI BE FINE JUST KO SUNDAY X_X
It looks like it hurts, with the effort of it. Doesn't it? You know, you know - it does. The stranger's grief bleeds openly, as bright as the gold that evaporated before it had touched scorched soil.
There is no thought or pity in it. Sunday's already lost his will to the blood moon, another mindless beast that blazes forward. Every wound answered with an open blade, his speech robbed in kind.
The heat burns, a dangerous thing, but his mind does not allow him to falter. Onward, to a destined end, into the clutches of a hero. The gryphon rises to the air, wings flapping like an omen: the same divebombing strike that comes down, claws extended as he aims right at his target: the audacity of a stranger in the wrong place.
Oh, okay! Sure, you got it
The gryphon flies claws-first into the concussive blast of a localized explosion, its molten luminescence bright enough to cast the immediate area in the golden radiance of midday. For one moment, just a second, he can feel it; the searing agony of the Coreflames burning a fresh hollow in him, suppressed during a days-long reprieve, and like clapping shut the door on a furnace, it's gone.
Only a moment, his white hair and blue eyes subsumed by coronal radiance, body cracked and crumbling, blackened by the heat, and a pair of wings silhouetted by the brightness of a newborn sun. The heat poses less of a danger to Sunday than the atmospheric pressure caused by that explosive burst - much like erecting a window before the divebombing of an unwitting bird.
holy shit wth goodbye to the vale WHEEZE
All he sees is an intense, burning light.
He thinks he sees the silhouette of a person, wings cracked, asymmetrical, blazing ever brighter than he's seen, beyond even the brightest stage lights of the Grand Theater. Not a warm one, no - the kind of light that obliterates everything it touches, scorches it into nothing.
He thinks he can smell his feathers burning. He tries not to think, of the searing on skin, before-
The impact hits him faster than anything else, sonic boom as he clatters from the sky like a moth to a flame trap. It isn't a momentous heap of feathers that lands with a shudder, but a much more muted thud. A human body, disrobed as it were, frayed at the edges still. He doesn't - can't - care about the burns he has. Maybe it's a miracle that he's even landed without breaking his neck, amongst other things.
Sunday simply lays on the ground, his head spinning in a thousand directions. The hazy stare of the barest recognition of a stranger.
All he can think about is what he heard, resonating in his mind: How terribly sad, they are.
💔 it was just a little burst...
His exhale gusts from him, pluming in the cold night air, the dregs still bring a heat shimmer as it leaves his lips.
Sunday is given the luxury of whole minutes to wait for his head to stop spinning, for his aches to report in, before Phainon steps into view. The robe knotted about his waist is blackened over much of the flannel, the hem ragged and burnt; the only reason it survived at all was likely because it had been damp from earlier rains. For one moment, he stands, gazing downward in what might initially seem to be indifference.
Then he kneels, seeking to scoop the back of Sunday's head up in the cup of one palm - assuming, that is, that Sunday doesn't rightfully flinch away.
took a little #blacktide liberties with this one..
... Squares? Black grids? His vision shakes as he trails, watches the entire Vale burn. He thinks he can smell the smoke, the despair, plinth-like wings spread. The radiant apocalypse, and it heralds the end of times. The black corruption cuts a path straight through, to the disintegrating feet of his attacker. The figure that walks to him has no face, more than the blazing halo'd scarlet of a void star.
( The Harmony echoes: things are not what they seem. )
Blinks, again, once, twice, three times. It takes a minute, two, what feels like an eternity. Blurred vision and thought.
The Vale does not burn. The stranger has a face. But the experience shakes him still, and Sunday tries in vain to jerk his head away. He lacks the strength for it, against this monster-made-man, try as he might. It simply sends another shot of vertigo into his head, and he murmurs, against a strangely warm hand. "What are..."
You?
Holy shit?!!
Phainon realizes that there are small wings growing impossibly from the young man’s head, so his fingers navigate them with care on their way to supporting both neck and the curve of the back of his skull.
Warmth radiates from his body, just this side of uncomfortable, and as he lifts Sunday’s head from the ground, his temperature is retreating into a more tolerable range.
Tolerable, that is, if one isn’t already burned.
He pushes his other arm under the man’s knees, carrying him as he rises to his feet. Gold blood patters to the ground around them.
“-I need to cool you down,” is the answer to the question he assumes Sunday asks, and not the one he intends.
The lake shore isn’t far. He soldiers on towards the dark water, slate black in the cloudy, lightless night. The white haired man spares him glances, grimly concerned and regretful in equal measure.
“It’s going to be cold.”
There’s a brief hiss when he steps into the shallow water, wisps of steam rising as he wades in, noisily. It’s freezing; he grits his teeth at the bright sting of his injuries, at the shock of dark, chilling water hitting heated skin. But there’s no other way to stop the progression of a burn.
harmony empathy x staring at khastomb’s freaky ass = brain frying is such a hell
Their heat burns like an open flame does. Sunday tries to flinch out of their grasp, scorched skin tender on a living furnace, like a fever that refuses to be quenched.
They say something. Sunday thinks that’s not what he asked - but all he can see when he looks up is their face - head - replaced by that scarlet halo, staring into the violent void of existence.
It flickers in and out of his sight, to a white-haired youth, to a blonde with sunburnt hair, neck sundered from the rest of his body. The paradox never ends in its shifting sand, always warped by black blocks.
Something incredibly dangerous. But he can’t look away, the psychedelic-rainbow eyes wide, eerily unblinking. Can’t even get away from the strong grasp on him. Despite the violence in his inner nature - still, trying to be gentle.
He doesn’t notice their destination until the frigid waters hit their skin. The wings on his waist jerk as he whines. Oil to a hot pan, he yelps and flinches, trying to struggle in futility. But THEIR face keeps changing.
All he knows is the regret that bleeds out of them, concern, and-
He reaches his hand out, touching feverish skin, on Phainon’s cheek. Uncomfortably hot above the water, maybe it might burn, but still, empathy only demands one toll. It’s all he can do, as a Halovian, watching this THING suffer, almost for an eternity.
“It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’ll be okay-“
Harmonic tuning may not work, an ebb of comfort that tries to bring calm to their shared turmoil; in his own frazzled state, but still, he has to try. Surely, someone was never meant to hold this much suffering, utterly alone.