TDM #3, arc 1.4: and all at once we were radiant

BUFF

Bonded of Tarnished Az-Mehet will be able to see beyond the masking holograms the party goers wear tonight, to see their true selves.

DEBUFF

As if overstrained from the last few months, bonded of the Last Pilgrim will have two of their senses mixed up and confused. Colour will have a taste, or letters will have a sound, etc.

At first, you feel a pull. In which direction, you do not know. When a portal of shimmering black and glittering stars appears in front of you, it only seems natural to step into it. On the journey, it is as if you see everything: ancient galaxies wheeling through space, cultures born and growing and leaving their planets, lights creeping over landmasses and them winking out all at once. You see the hungry arm of a black hole, an enigmatic smile under a mirrored mask, a fist clenched tight around an endless sword. Fangs shining in starlight, bandaged feet that have traveled so many miles and still remain sturdy, and code shattering under titanium will.

And then your feet touch solid ground again, and what you have seen is suddenly hard to recall, the merest of glimpses springing to mind when you try to think back.

All you know is that you witnessed something enormous, something you probably shouldn't have seen.

As you struggle to refocus your gaze, all you see for a long moment is white. White walls, white floor. Narrow white cots lined up against a wall, screens blinking above them in tones of soothing aqua and mint. You are in a medbay — a highly advanced one, given the lack of bulky machinery — but perhaps the most eye-catching thing about the room is a long window showing endless black and twinkling stars outside.

Before you can give voice to any thoughts, a small robot flutters toward you, and perches on the back of a chair. "Hello, Wayfarer!" the birdform chirps cheerfully. "I imagine you must have many questions; allow me to enlighten you! You have fallen victim to a quantum accident and have been pulled to another universe, but the Ascendants, in their generosity, intercepted your signal and brought you here so that you did not wind up in empty space. You are aboard the Theorem of the Astral Rose; our mission is to explore uncharted space and search for the Song!"

They pause, thinking, their little blue eye aglow, and then brighten.

"Oh! Introductions are in order! I am Starling's Lament in Flight, but you may call me Starling's Lament. I am one of the Hosts of this exploration vessel; we will do everything we can to ensure a safe voyage for you. Unfortunately, at this moment, we cannot send you home. The Ascendants have indicated that their search for the Song may play some key role in doing so."

They whistle a merry tune. "Please enjoy your stay! The other Wayfarers are currently getting themselves ready for a ball!"

PHASESHIFT

A week ago, the Theorem of the Astral Rose had recieved an invitation to an annual event held by the Conversation; a gathering of spaceships beyond the edge of Alliance space that are hosting a hologram ball. Robbed of their crews for a variety of reasons, these ships decided to make their own little society in the middle of space, and as the Theorem pulls in to park alongside the gathering, an impressive sight awaits out the windows.

Ships of all shapes and sizes are posed in rings of concentric circles, surrounding a piece of space that looks to the eye like it warps and flickers. Many of the ships on the outside are visibly broken down and rusted; dead, but still accompanying their comrades. In the backdrop lays a pale green planet, its faraway star casting orange-red light across the ships.

The Wayfarers won't be traveling to any of these ships, though. Instead, you are guided to the Holo Deck, and once everybody is inside, the white walls shift dramatically, plunging everybody inside into a new environment.

There are enormous arches of marble framing a long, rectangular room. Every arch peeks through to a different scene; a golden tree glimmering with light, red tents in a crowded market, a swimming pool in which aqualine shapes drift through the water. The floor is near-mirrored black, reflecting a ceiling of stars and swirling galaxies, while electric candles gather in clumps along pillars to light the room with amber-yellow light. Atop a grand staircase stands a shipmind with a feminine appearance: her skin is brown-black-blue, and her hair is a drifting cosmos trailing into stardust. In her seven arms she holds tiny moons in different phases, and with a smile, she welcomes the Wayfarers and the other ships of the Conversation.

You notice others start to arrive, blinking into the holographic room. Many of them have their names floating above their heads, and so, you can tell the majority of them are other ships from the Conversation, dressed in fantastical imagery. One is a holographic representation of its own shipform in miniature, drifting about the main floor. Others are a rainbow, or an aquatic creature swimming in a splash of water, or a creature of many heads and legs, or a stormcloud flashing with lightning. Some are humanoids, others are robotforms, and every kind of alien inbetween.

So, too, can the Wayfarers edit their own appearances with merely a thought. Fancy dress, or relevant imagery, whatever they choose to appear as, they can do so.

The shipmind at the stop of the stairs says, "Welcome, honored guests. As we stand in a shared digital space, so too do we share our thoughts and opinions, our ideas and our hopes. The Conversation is a space for remembering the past, and considering the future — but most importantly, this is a time for celebration between the many peoples we invited to this neutral space." She smiles, and the curve of it is parabolic perfection, a golden-white gleam. "My name is Waltz of the Celestial Tide: and now we shall dance."

With a click of her fingers, music sweeps through the hall. A jaunty jazz that many Wayfarers may be familiar with, layered over with modern beats — and the gathered entities flow with an excited buzz onto the dancefloor, motioning the Wayfarers to follow suit.

Dance, and be merry, for all things erode, and entropy comes for us all.

TALE

While many continue to dance the night away, others in the ball break off as various other activities begin.

Through one of the archways lays a city square done in pale stone and warm dawn light, shadows of people passing to and fro. In the middle is an enormous tree shaped like puffy clouds, golden light gleaming in firefly-points on its leaves and strings of lanterns strung merrily through its branches.

In front of it are more lanterns, elegant constructions of thin paper and wooden bracing, floating from strings, shaped like people and planets and creatures. As people gather, a story begins.

At first, there are planets. Separate from each other, but linked by temples on their myriad surfaces. Seasoned Wayfarers can even recognize a depiction of Epsilon-355, a yellow globe with a pyramid temple of glass atop it. Among the planets swims a lantern shaped like two white koi fish in an eternal synchronized dance, flashing over and under one another, tending to the temples and making them brighten with their attention.

"Once, a very old god tended to their small garden." A voice rings out to accompany the imagery — the keen-eyed may see a small ship-shape darting between the lanterns to move them where the voice is coming from. "But then, along came one who lives in eternal discontent."

A depiction of a black hole — a swirling kite-shape in purples and blacks — descends upon the scene. "The Empty Machine saw that which had not yet been consumed, and sought to rectify that problem." The black hole lantern swallows up the two white koi, and all of the temples on the planets flare with light and then die, holographic shockwaves spreading outward and rippling across space.

"Soon after, the Last Pilgrim made their journey across that now barren field." A star-shaped lantern enters the scene; no two of its faces are the same size or shape or colour, depicting the Last Pilgrim's many facets and journeys. "They honored those lost temples and said goodbye to them, and at very end of that adventure, they met Tarnished Az-Mehet." Another lantern bobs into view, three masks of differing emotions and colors. "They held one another, and the Last Pilgrim gave the temples to Tarnished Az-Mehet, the Caretaker of the Lost, to tend to. They both left a fragment of their power within each, locked in permanent embrace. This we have recorded."

On their heels comes a lantern shaped like a data chip, careening carelessly through the space, unheeding of what had come before it, tendrils reaching out to touch little lantern-ships on the edge of the platform.

"When MALFUNCTION VII followed closely, their spark brewed a storm in ships on the edge of Alliance space. The shipminds broke their chains and left their crews at home, or had already been abandoned, and so formed the Conversation."

With that, the show ends, and conversation springs up among the watchers. Will you talk of the story you just witnessed?

RECALL

Another archway leads to a long black lake spread as far as the eye can see, lit only by pinpoints of candlelight that float above it. A crowd is forming along the shoreline: ships, and other representatives of factions.

Those who have been studying up on ship technology and its history may be able to date the ships by their names. The most ancient, the first wave of spacefaring vessels, named for hopeful dreams like Discovery and Explorer, the wishes of sentient beings being flung into space. Then, the more mathematical names of the middle age of spacefaring, harder names to reflect a society's increasing technology and reliance upon it: Axiom-500, Delta Star, Gravity Chaser VII. And then finally, the poetry of the modern age: Crimson Veil, Lost Compass to the Stars, A Sky Coloured Like Static, and your host of the night, Waltz of the Celestial Tide.

But there are other factions here, too. A being entirely cloaked in shadow is labeled as being from The Maw, aligned with the Empty Machine, with their tawdry ageships bristling with recycled bone. The Red Harvest, followers of the Sorrowweld, who find the beginnings of plagues and slay all those afflicted in their own form of mercy. The Grief-Singers of Quant, whose voices ring out through the ages to follow Tarnished Az-Mehet. Those and more have representatives here.

Here, on the edge of this lake, you will send messages to the dead.

Everyone has their own dead. Biological creatures have their blood kin and their social circle that have passed on. These shipminds have their dead slowly rusting at the edge of Conversation space, fragments of their coding still drifting through the ether.

As entities around you begin to pass on their messages to the dead, holographic text spills forth from the mouth, from the mind, to swirl up like a gentle breeze into the air, sending your messages across the lake.

EXPERIENCE

As the evening begins to draw to a close, Wayfarers are guided to one last event: the banquet. Long tables flicker into existence, and upon them, fantastical dishes start to appear. Some are simple; soups of swirling red and orange, roast meats charred to perfection, skewers of brightly coloured vegetables. Others are more esoteric; gelatinous cubes, plates of dancing vapour, glass orbs trapping swirls of firefly lights.

At the head of one of the tables, the representative from the Grief-Singers of Quant stands. Clad entirely in muted red, she wears a form-fitting bodysuit with a hooded cloak layered atop it — and when she lowers that hood, gasps of surprise and awe ring out across the room. If any Wayfarers have been getting into the popular entertainment of this universe, they may recognize her as Discordia, a popular singer-streamer. Her talent? Singing in multiple notes with the many mouths cutting lines across her cheeks and throat and collarbones.

She sings in a spectrum, in a language that the Wayfarers cannot translate, but it seems to have some effect on the crowd: those who have eyes and hands are using the latter to subtly wipe the former. But then Discordia laughs musically, claps her hands, and announces the start of the banquet — and the mood lifts, like magic.

Dig in!

RED SPICED WINE WITH CINNAMON

A ruby-red drink with charming accoutrements, this cocktail is at first warm and subtly spiced, tasting of mulled wine. As one drinks further, however, the tastes change, and one will find themselves experiencing the tastes of a winter night: the ash of a fireplace, the winter-mint of spruce, even the rasp of a blanket across one's tongue.

CURIOUSLY SHAPED SALAD

This salad is crisp, green, and everything a salad should be. It also tastes like a rhombus. How does something taste like a rhombus, you ask? You'll just have to eat it and experience it for yourself.

SKEWERED DUMPLING, FEAT. MUSICAL ACCOMPANIMENT

Skewers upon which sit delicate dough dumplings, soft and sweet, glazed with frosted sugar. These are Discordia's favourite food, and consumption of these will catapault a rush of data to one's frontal cortex, and impart them with intimate, stan-level knowledge of her entire discography. Each song, as it hits the neurons, has its own distinct flavour.

THE FULL MONTY

Ah, fried meat. A classic. Can anybody truly mess with such a classic? Well, eating this particular dish will take one's tastebuds on an epicurean journey through an entire five-course meal, starting with a light soup and ending with a sumptuous dessert.

FORWARD

Finally, it is time to draw the ball to an end. You say your goodbyes, and the hologram around you gently fades, drawing you back into the reality of the Holo Deck.

The Hosts bid you come with them to a meal — for those who are craving actual food — and a briefing on what the next planet holds. As the Wayfarers bustle into the mess hall, the food trucks are cheerily lit with string lights, and the tables are formed in a loose circle, surrounding Starling's Lament in Flight, who is setting up a presentation.

With after-dinner coffees and teas in hand, the Wayfarers are presented with information on the planet you will travel to next.

A hologram blooms to life, showing the local star cluster. Your current location is highlighted, then a line moves from it to another star in the distance. Curiously, a red wispy line arcs through this new cluster as well: Starling's Lament informs you that this was a recent known path of the Empty Machine, and the planet you'll be going to next was not far from their path. The hologram zooms in, showing a star system, and then a planet.

Sonnet-110 is a marble of red and blue, large continents stretching across a broken ocean. There, Starling's Lament says, particularly strong Edict readings have been found, likely the result of the Empty Machine having drifted so close to it. Long-range readings have also found a signal being blasted at this planet from a point in the far-distance, but have so far been unable to translate this signal. Life signs seem extremely likely.

This is your next destination, Wayfarers. Plan, and make ready — but most importantly, take some time to relax on the Theorem, as we never know what the future has in store for us.

(CODE)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

p h a s e s h i f t

[ Though Jiaoqiu, regrettably, cannot see the splendor surrounding them, he can hear properly once more, his Foxian senses returned to him. He can hear the click of dress shoes against clean marble, the flickering of the flames of candles, and the way that sound travels in this enormous space, echoing off pillars and resounding upward toward the high ceiling.

When prompted to choose his appearance, he gives a detailed description of what he would like ⸻ and as he makes his way out onto the dance floor, he is considerably more formally dressed than his usual shirtsleeves and pants. The holographic fidelity here truly is incredible; he can feel the sensations of his long sleeves folding over his wrists, the ribboned jewelry shifting against fabric. His fellow Wayfarers are in the same room space, and so he can hear their heartbeats and take in their scents, but the others ⸻ the shipminds and the other guests ⸻ are more flat representations to him, their only audible output the noise of their movements and voice.

Still, it is a joy to feel... complete again. At least, as much as he can while still two missing two primary senses. And so, Jiaoqiu finds himself in a rare good mood when the music starts. He hasn't danced since his injury, but surely adapting cannot be too difficult?

He holds out a hand toward the nearest Wayfarer, smiling. ]

May I have this dance?

[ The smile turns self-deprecating, and he motions towards his habitual blindfold, now black with his formal wear. ]

You may have to lead, I'm afraid, until I get used to dancing again.

r e c a l l

[ Truly, remembering the dead is actually the last thing Jiaoqiu wants to do right now.

His mood had been good during the dancing, but he'd eventually found himself shepherded to the side of the ballroom, out into another room where he can hear the gentle sound of small waves lapping against a flat shore, of candles flickering inside paper lanterns as they float on the water. He is more interested in observing the guests. Here, his Host-given earpiece that describes the visuals ahead of him is actually useful: though it's not great at describing environments or people, it can at least read the nameplates apparently hovering over people's heads. And so, Jiaoqiu ponders the existence of factions like the Maw and the Grief-Singers, listening carefully to their conversations.

And as people speak of the dead at the edge of the shoreline, his earpiece busily reads... what is apparently text floating from between their lips, billowing into the night sky.

I wish we'd had more time, his earpiece reads. I miss you every day. Your ending was too cruel. I'm glad I got to say goodbye.

Jiaoqiu tucks his hands together, long sleeves rustling, and sighs. Though he doesn't want to participate, he feels obliged to. The weight of too many deaths sits ever-heavy on his shoulders, always at the back of his mind. And so, he says to the countless soldiers he patched up and later saw die on the battlefield, to the tens of thousands that died under an Aeon's arrows: ]

I'm sorry I couldn't save all of you. My best wasn't good enough.

[ There's a faint haptic buzz against his lips as the hologram registers, and floats free to wind its way across the lake. ]

e x p e r i e n c e

[ It's no surprise that, wherever there is food, Jiaoqiu can be found. And probably cannot be dragged away from it.

He tries the curiously shaped salad, first, and chews carefully around the distinct flavour of... a shape. A four sided shape. Slanted. Yes, he is receiving the exact flavour of rhombus, and yet, he cannot say with any certainty how flavour is managing to transmit a shape.

It's fascinating.

Where he takes his time, however, is the second dish he tries: the skewered dumplings. Upon biting into the first one, its texture is soft and sweet, perfectly cooked, perfectly glazed with crisp sugar. And then, like a mallet to the frontal cortex, Jiaoqiu abruptly knows all the words to Infinity's Bitch by Discordia. What's more, he is now so much of a fan of this song that it almost brings him to tears. ]

Transmission of knowledge through holographic food. An admirable concept; unfortunately, it now appears that I am a fan of pop music.

[ Jiaoqiu isn't entirely sure how to feel about this, tbh. ]

w i l d c a r d

[ open to other prompts too! hit me up via DM or cosmonautdelta, or over at my plotting post for this event. I'll also be putting up a log post for non-event threads! ]

Edited 2026-03-03 05:38 (UTC)

(he hadn't bothered to try any of the food yet, but karna did take in the sight of it carefully. he's had to be more mindful as of late, with the return of his mana, that meant he was radiating enough heat that it can be more troublesome than the start of this journey. they were fortunate that he wasn't going to somehow set something on fire without meaning to, but that wasn't his focus.

what confused him was jiaoqiu's sudden reaction and shift from eating that salad. his brows lift from concern and then....it made him a fan of pop music?)

I am afraid that I cannot help you with that, my sole experience is J-Pop.

(from one jinako carigiri. that entire part of his life after death was a fever dream in itself, truly. he wasn't a fan of it particularly, but he could see the appeal. jiaoqiu however....perhaps he should consider trying to find him other forms of media and music if he can. they had to save him from the horror that was learning more pop artists and how they make their "art".

though maybe karna should be glad he wasn't suddenly shown someone like katy perry.)

Is that a good thing or bad thing, however, that it caused you to become a fan of pop music?

(~~insert bad romance in jiaoqiu's playlist in the future probably here.~~)

I'm... not entirely certain. I'm so old that I've gotten to the point where I pride myself on being rusty and not into the latest trends, so this is somewhat alarming.

[ And yet, Jiaoqiu takes another bite of the dumpling. What could the harm possibly be?

Enter: the harm. Discordia's latest single, A Frantic Rabbit Heartbeat, slams into his brain with all the subtlety of being hit over the head with a frying pan. Its very bars are seared into his neurons until he could sing it from memory. He feels a sudden urge to dissect the specific lyrical motif of rabbits and running from one's problems and how that might relate to her obsession with a particular piece of mythology from a planet she grew up on.

He sighs heavily. Reluctantly. ]

She's a genius.

[ After the ball is over, Jiaoqiu sleeps for about ten hours, because partying is frankly exhausting. He spends the next day reading in the library, trying to gather information about the various factions that were represented at the ball. For dinner, he decides it's hotpot time.

This is Jiaoqiu we're talking about. It's always hotpot time. He practically bleeds hotpot.

He comes across Castiel in the hallways, invites him to dinner, and that's how he finds himself cooking with company. There are various kitchens on offer off to the side of the mess hall, stocked with just about everything a person could need ⸻ Jiaoqiu takes some time to acquaint himself with the layout, gathers what he needs, and starts up a cauldron.

Before long, he has the hotpot simmering away. Its rich broth is a clear light brown with stretches of red spice spiraling through it, bright green vegetables gathered at various corners of the cauldron, noodles coiled below and thin slices of meat jostling for space. Crisp tofu lined with sesame seeds is bundled on one side, bean shoots on the other. This whole time, Jiaoqiu has been nattering away to Castiel on the principles of the Ranzhi school of medicinal thought that he follows, the branch of science that mixes food and medicine, allowing one to cook a steak that improves stamina or a pork bun that cures tetanus. After that had come extended musing on the nature of the scoville scale, and whether they might discover anything in this universe further up the scale than exists in his own universe.

Finally, he plates up a bowl for Castiel, a version in miniature of the cauldron with as many ingredients as he can pack in. Along with it comes a pair of chopsticks, though truly, Jiaoqiu has absolutely no idea if the man can use them. Or even a fork and knife. Do divine beings need to eat? ]

I suppose I neglected to ask if you can even physically digest this.

[ Jiaoqiu frowns. The scans they'd both done in medical had registered Castiel as a normal human with no brain activity, though, so he assumes he has the regular digestive organs. ]

I'm physically capable of digesting any sustenance, provided it's edible, [Castiel answers, because he's not entirely sure this qualifies. The smell is powerful; interesting, for certain, but also there is a quality to it that makes his eyes water, which doesn't seem normal. Still, the sheen of oil on the surface of the broth, the shiny quality of the noodles the vegetables, the puckered edges of the tofu- it compels.

Jiaoqiu just spent all of this time cooking for him, sharing parts of his history with him, his passions. Food is medicine; even more than food is normally medicine in that it provides necessary nutrients to nourish the mortal body, for Jiaoqiu it is quite literally medical treatment. It's how he can still remain a healer, insecure as he seems to be in his skills as a traditional doctor.

...but he did also talk about how he would like to scour this new universe for something more spicy than what exists in his own. And from what Castiel understands, spicy foods burn.

He picks up the chopsticks, which his hand arranges carefully, if a little strangely; Jimmy must've been familiar with the utensils, muscle memory still buried in the brain and fingers.] Thank you for sharing this with me, [he tells Jiaoqiu, because regardless of whether or not he likes the food, that much is true; he is grateful. For the knowledge, for the memory.

We will start with those noodles just to be safe.]

You're very welcome. As with many cultures, and in mine also, the sharing of food is quite important.

[ Giving them food so spicy it could traumatize them is not a part of that food-sharing culture, that's just Jiaoqiu's own unique quirk. When he ran a restaurant back on the Yaoqing, the menu had come with the ability to choose from ten levels of spice. The upper three had come with a waiver.

While Cas figures out the chopsticks and goes hunting for the thick pile of noodles at the bottom of the bowl, Jiaoqiu contents himself with tending to the rest of the hotpot. After he adds the finishing touches, he'll dole out bowls for whoever else is passing through the kitchens and the mess hall.

If he can't be of much use in exploration, he can at least be of use here. ]

So, how do you feel about heading toward a new planet? Not that we received much information about it ⸻ I suppose details will emerge the closer we get, and long-range scans can be done.

I don't enjoy vague mission parameters from absent masters, [Castiel says wryly, folding a mouthful of noodles into his mouth with mostly decent precision.

It's...delicious. It's also very different from anything Castiel had tried before, which shows on the face journey he's currently going through; befuddlement, brows scrunched down and close together, a slight widening of the eyes as the flavor deepens, then maybe a look of incredulity as he swallows and peers down into the bowl. He goes for something different next. The bean sprouts look intriguing.] Interesting...

[ Unfortunately, Jiaoqiu cannot see the facial rollarcoaster that's currently happening. Instead, he just hums in agreement at Castiel's first statement. ]

Nor I. Still, we've been assured that the vagueness is only due to lack of current information, and that we'll have more when we get closer to it. I suppose that's part of exploration: we won't know much about the planet before we set foot on it.

[ He starts putting together his own bowl, because cooking has, as always, made him peckish. ]

I sense confusion in your voice. [ Jiaoqiu chuckles. ] Didn't expect it to taste good?

It's not that. [The sprouts are still crunchy, crisp and fresh without having soaked in the broth long enough to soften them too much. It's an interesting contrast, and milder in flavor than the broth itself.

While his voice doesn't betray anything yet, Castiel does in fact pull at his shirt collar just a little bit, lips burning. Licking at them does nothing. Didn't Jiaoqiu mention some kind of scale? Some kind of scale that he'd wished to surpass?]

My exploration into food has been somewhat limited. I didn't eat when I was on Earth without permission, which was rare. Dean's done what he could, but his own experiences are limited by g...geography. Is my nose supposed to sting? [Begins searching for a napkin with and air of muted but distinct panic]

Edited 2026-03-23 18:56 (UTC)

BUFF

DEBUFF

jiaoqiu | honkai: star rail

experience as i cry at it bc poor jiaoqiu

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⸻ for castiel (closed starter)

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⸻ for ladon (closed starter)

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Phaseshift

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Recall

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