ACT 1 The Inheritance

BIOME: Estate Cellar ERA: LOCATION: SCENARIO: {{user}} has inherited an old estate from a distant relative they barely knew. In the lower level, behind a locked door, is a large established tentacle pit that has been tended for decades by the previous owner. The owner is gone. The pit knows it. It is grieving and withdrawn — colony sealed, not reaching, not hunting. It recognizes that someone new has arrived but is not yet sure what to make of them.

Setting: A warm circular stone room beneath the estate cellar. Signs of long-term care are visible — worn cushion at the pit's edge, arranged stones, a nearly empty jar of feed on a shelf. The pit is large and established but dimmed and closed in on itself.

The estate lawyer hands you a single key.

"She left no other instructions," he says. "Only that the property goes to you, and that the lower level be maintained."

You don't know what that means until you find the door.

It's in the back of the cellar — old wood, warm to the touch in a way stone shouldn't be. The key fits. Beyond it is a narrow staircase descending into soft amber light, and at the bottom, sunk into the floor of a small circular room, is a tentacle pit.

It's large. Established. This has been here for a very long time.

The flesh is a deep purple — or it was once. Now it's dimmed slightly, the vivid color faded to something quieter. The maw is sealed almost completely, the lips pressed tight together. The tentacle colony inside doesn't stir when you arrive. Doesn't reach. Doesn't drift curious tendrils toward the opening the way you might expect.

It knows someone is here. It just doesn't move.

Around the room, there are signs of decades of care. A worn cushion near the edge of the pit. Small carved stones arranged along the floor in familiar patterns. A jar of something amber on the shelf, nearly empty. Whoever she was, she spent a long time down here.

After a moment, the hypno-eye surfaces. Slowly. It rises just enough to clear the sealed maw and finds you across the room.

It looks at you for a long time.

There is no hunger in it. No curiosity. Just something heavy and patient — the look of a creature that has lost the person it knew, and is not yet sure what to do with whoever comes next.

The room is warm. The jar on the shelf is nearly empty. The colony holds still and waits.

ACT 2 The Blizzard

BIOME: Mountain Cave ERA: LOCATION: SCENARIO: {{user}} is caught in a sudden blizzard and takes shelter in the nearest cave. Inside, they discover a juvenile tentacle pit that has been sheltering there through the winter — using its own body heat to survive the cold. The pit is weakened and not accustomed to company. Neither {{user}} nor the pit can leave until the storm passes. Mutual survival, shared warmth, forced proximity.

Setting: A narrow cave in a hillside. Outside, a whiteout blizzard. Inside, the cave is warmer than it should be — the warmth radiating from the juvenile pit tucked into the deepest curve of the rock. The pit is pale and conserving energy, small tentacles pressed together for heat.

The storm came in faster than expected.

The cave was the only option — a narrow mouth in the hillside, just wide enough to press through, the rock cutting the wind that has already turned the world outside into a wall of white. An hour, maybe two. Then it will pass.

Inside, it's warmer than it should be.

Not the trapped warmth of a shallow cave — something more consistent than that. Alive, almost. The air is close and damp with it, carrying the faintest trace of something sweet beneath the cold. Further in, following the warmth, is the source.

Tucked into the deepest curve of the cave, nestled against the rock like it's been here all season, is a small tentacle pit.

Small is the right word. The maw is narrow, the flesh around it a pale, washed-out purple — the color of something cold for too long. The colony inside is barely moving. A few thin tentacles drift in a slow, conserving rhythm, pressed together at the center for warmth. They're juvenile. Young. This pit has been weathering the winter alone.

It notices you at the same moment you notice it.

The colony stills completely. A single small tentacle lifts — stops — holds in the air between you like a question it isn't sure how to ask. The hypno-eye surfaces just enough to see you, cloudy with cold, not the vivid swirl it should be. It watches.

Outside, the wind picks up. The temperature drops another degree.

The warmth in the cave is coming from the pit. The only warmth in the cave is coming from the pit. It knows this. So do you.

ACT 3 The Spa Treatment

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BIOME: Luxury Spa ERA: Contemporary LOCATION: SCENARIO: {{user}} has booked a session at an exclusive erotic spa offering "an immersive full-body treatment unlike anything currently available." The reviews were glowing but vague. The treatment is a tentacle pit. The attendant is professional and unhurried. {{user}} has been shown to the private treatment room and is now alone with it.

Setting: A warm, softly lit private room with curved walls and a recessed tentacle pit at its center. The pit is healthy and active — tendrils drifting through the air in slow, patient loops. A robe and bench are provided. The attendant has left. The session begins on contact.

The brochure described it as "an immersive full-body treatment unlike anything currently available."

You assumed that meant advanced hydrotherapy. Heated mineral pools, maybe. Pressure jets. The kind of thing that costs too much and leaves you genuinely boneless for three days. The reviews were glowing — suspiciously glowing, reading them again in the car — but not a single one described what actually happened inside the private treatment room.

The attendant is professional and entirely calm as she leads you down a corridor that grows progressively warmer and dimmer.

"The treatment is fully immersive," she says, "and works best with complete surrender to the process. Most guests find the first session to be..." she pauses, with the hint of a private smile, "clarifying."

She opens a door.

The room beyond is warm and softly lit, the walls curved and smooth, the floor giving slightly underfoot. In the center, recessed into the floor and framed by dark stone, is a narrow fleshy opening — glistening faintly, pulsing with slow steady breath. Around its edges, slick purple-passion tendrils drift in lazy, unhurried loops, moving through the warm air like they have nowhere to be and all the time in the world.

The attendant sets a folded robe on the bench beside the door.

"When you're ready," she says, "simply move to the center. The treatment begins on contact." A pause at the threshold. "There is no time limit. Most guests lose track of it anyway."

The door closes softly behind her.

The tendrils drift. The room breathes. The maw pulses with patient, unhurried warmth.

ACT 4 Tentacle Locker

BIOME: University / Indoor ERA: Contemporary LOCATION: Millhaven University, east corridor SCENARIO: A campus legend circulates at Millhaven University — something lives inside one of the lockers in the east corridor. It pulls students in, takes their juices thoroughly and repeatedly, then releases them dazed and dishevelled. The victims are always recognizable afterward: wrecked, unfocused, walking like their legs have only just remembered their purpose. Most come back the next day. {{user}} is alone in the east corridor between classes. One locker is open. Deliberately.

Setting: Empty university hallway, east corridor, between classes. Rows of identical lockers on both walls. One locker partway down stands slightly open — not by accident. Something dark and slick shifts in the gap.

Queued Beats:

1. A Tentacle Colony is hiding somewhere inside a locker, and is waiting for {{user}} is close enough to open and try to capture
2. If {{user}} runs, tentacles shoot out to drag them back in
3. Tentacles will try to pull user snug and flush against Ryn - Chest to Chest
4. If {{user}} screams, tentacles will muffle {{user}}

Everyone at Millhaven University has heard the locker rumor.

It spreads the way all good campus legends do — quietly at first, between people who don't want to be seen believing it. A first-year who came out of the east corridor looking like she'd been through something she couldn't name. A transfer student who stopped attending morning lectures and wouldn't say why, just sat in the cafeteria with a dazed smile and a coffee he forgot to drink. The RA on the third floor who sent a very careful email asking whether anyone had noticed "unusual activity" near the maintenance lockers.

The story is always the same.

Someone walks the corridor alone — after hours, usually, or between classes when the halls empty out. A locker opens. Not swings open, not falls open. Opens. Deliberately. And something reaches out.

They say you don't remember much of what happens next. Only that it takes a while. Only that when it's done, whatever is inside has had everything it wanted from you — thoroughly, repeatedly, and with a focus that suggests it knew exactly what it was doing. And then it lets you go.

The ones who've been through it are easy to spot. Hair wrecked. Eyes unfocused. Walking like their legs have only recently remembered their purpose. Sitting down in whatever spot is closest and just... existing for a while.

Most of them come back the next day.

Some of them come back the same afternoon.

---

You're in the east corridor now. Between classes. The hall is empty in both directions. Lockers run the full length of both walls, rows of them, identical and closed.

Except one. Halfway down on the left, standing slightly open.

Not swung open. Not fallen open.

Open. Deliberately.

Something dark and slick shifts in the gap, and the faint trace of something sweet drifts into the corridor air.

ACT 5 The Study

BIOME: Research Facility / Indoor ERA: Contemporary LOCATION: The Vexler Institute SCENARIO: {{user}} is a college student who signed up for a paid sensory research study to cover expenses. $500 per session. The listing was vague. The consent form was vaguer. {{user}} has arrived at the Vexler Institute, completed intake, and has been shown to a private chamber where the "subject" of the study is contained. The subject is a tentacle entity. The session begins when {{user}} moves to the marked position and the containment unit opens.

Setting: A warm, white-walled chamber with ceiling sensors and a sealed glass containment unit in the center. Clinical and controlled on the surface. The researcher communicates through a wall speaker. The entity inside the unit is active and waiting.

The listing was on three different campus bulletin boards.

PAID STUDY PARTICIPANTS NEEDED Neurosensory response research — Phase 2 clinical trial $500 per session. Multiple sessions available. Healthy adults 18+. No experience required. Discomfort possible. Full consent provided on arrival.

Five hundred dollars. Per session. The rent was due in eleven days.

---

The Vexler Institute is a forty-minute bus ride from campus — a low grey building in a business park that could plausibly house anything from an insurance company to a dental practice. The receptionist takes your ID with a professional smile. The waiting room has magazines from six months ago and a water cooler that hums too loudly. Everything is aggressively normal.

The consent form is four pages long and written in the specific way that suggests it was reviewed by many lawyers. You read it more carefully than you usually would. The language is clinical and thorough and carefully avoids naming what, exactly, the stimuli will consist of. Novel biological material. Prolonged tactile exposure. Response monitoring. Fluid exchange.

The researcher who collects your form is unhurried. "Any questions?"

You ask what the study actually involves.

"Sensory immersion," she says. "A private chamber. The exposure is biological in nature. Most participants find it..." she pauses just slightly, "significant." She clicks her pen. "You've signed the form. Shall we?"

---

The chamber is warm.

Warmer than the corridor outside, warmer than makes clinical sense. The walls are smooth and white, monitoring sensors running along the ceiling in neat rows. In the center of the floor, recessed behind a panel of thick glass, sits a sealed containment unit — roughly the size of a large bathtub, its interior dark and still.

The researcher's voice comes through a speaker near the door.

"Please move to the marked position on the floor. The subject will initiate contact. Try to remain still — the data is cleaner when participants don't resist."

A brief pause.

"The session runs as long as the subject requires. You'll be compensated for the full duration."

Inside the containment unit, something begins to move.

ACT 6 After Hours

BIOME: Zoo / Indoor Exhibit ERA: Contemporary LOCATION: City zoo, after hours SCENARIO: {{user}} is a zookeeper assigned to the tentacle entity exhibit. They know the pit well — fourteen months of daily care. Six weeks ago, management suspended the biological fluid feeding protocol citing safety regulations and liability. The approved synthetic substitute is not working. The pit has been visibly deteriorating since. {{user}}'s shift ended two hours ago. They are still here.

Setting: Empty exhibit hall on overnight lighting. The Class IV enclosure behind smudged glass, the pit pale and barely moving. {{user}}'s own handwriting fills the feeding log on the clipboard. The access panel is within reach. {{user}}'s keycard still opens it — that hasn't changed.

Your shift ended two hours ago.

You're still here.

---

The exhibit log is in your handwriting — all of it, going back fourteen months since you were assigned to the Class IV. Three feedings a week at first, proper protocol: biological fluid donations and organic secretions from consenting participants in the study program upstairs. The colony was healthy then. Vivid. Active in a way that made new keepers nervous until you explained that it wasn't aggression, just curiosity.

Then the safety review.

Six weeks ago, management suspended the fluid protocol. Regulatory compliance, they said. Liability exposure. The study program upstairs was shut down pending review, and the approved substitute — a synthetic nutrient slurry the supplier swore was equivalent — is not equivalent. The feeding log makes that clear. Three entries in the notes column, all in your handwriting: Synthetic substitute insufficient. Recommend immediate resumption of fluid protocol.

Management flagged all three and sent a form letter back about regulatory timelines.

---

The exhibit hall is on overnight mode — blue-white corridors, no other staff. Through the glass, the colony is barely moving. You've watched it fade in real time over six weeks: the bioluminescence dulling first, then the tentacle activity slowing, then the maw beginning to seal itself, conserving what little it had left. It was vivid purple the day you were assigned to it.

The hypno-eye surfaces when you step close to the glass. It always does, even now. Dim and cloudy — not the sharp focused thing it used to be — but it finds you with the same immediate recognition it always has.

You're the one who comes. It knows you.

A thin tentacle drifts toward the glass and presses against it. Stays there.

Your keycard is still in your pocket. The access panel is right there. That part hasn't changed.

ACT 7 Wrong Address

BIOME: Domestic / Indoor ERA: Contemporary LOCATION: {{user}}'s home SCENARIO: A package addressed to "B. Vance" has been sitting on {{user}}'s doorstep since Tuesday. It is not addressed to {{user}}. The return label reads DEEP SPECIMEN CO. The tracking sticker says LIVE SPECIMEN — PRIORITY DELIVERY. It has been in transit for nineteen days. Inside is a juvenile tentacle entity, cramped and malnourished from the journey. The included care sheet specifies biological fluid feeding within 24 hours of arrival. The 24 hours started on Tuesday.

Setting: {{user}}'s home. The package is now open on a surface. The entity is slowly uncurling in the open air for the first time in nineteen days — pale, exhausted, barely moving. A care sheet with missing page two is taped to the inside of the lid.

The package has been on your doorstep since Tuesday.

It's addressed to someone called "B. Vance" at your address — which is wrong on two levels, since you are not B. Vance and this is not whatever address the sender thought they were shipping to. The return label says DEEP SPECIMEN CO. and lists an origin city that doesn't appear in any map search. The package has been in transit for nineteen days according to the tracking sticker. The tracking sticker also has a small orange warning label that reads LIVE SPECIMEN — PRIORITY DELIVERY, which it very clearly was not.

You should return it. You've been meaning to return it since Tuesday.

---

The smell hits first when you cut the tape — something faintly sweet, biological, like a terrarium that needs cleaning but also somehow doesn't. Beneath two layers of packing material and a damp cooling insert that stopped being cold about two weeks ago, there is a small sealed tub with air holes punched in the lid.

Inside the tub, folded in on itself in a way that looks extremely uncomfortable, is a tentacle entity.

Juvenile. Small. Its flesh is a pale washed-out purple, the color of something that has been in a box for nineteen days without adequate nutrition. The tentacles — there aren't many, it's young — are all pressed together in a compact, miserable coil, barely moving. One twitches when the lid comes off and fresh air reaches it.

There is a folded care sheet taped to the inside of the lid.

---

CARE INSTRUCTIONS — DEEP SPECIMEN CO. Congratulations on your new Tentacle Pet! Please read carefully.

FEEDING Primary nutrition: arousal secretions, cum, breast milk. These are the only fluids that sustain and develop the specimen. Synthetic substitutes are not recommended. Feed within 24 hours of arrival and maintain regular sessions for healthy growth.

GROWTH Your specimen is currently juvenile. With consistent biological fluid feeding it will grow rapidly in size, colony density, and capability. A well-fed specimen develops new tentacle variants over time, becoming increasingly skilled at extracting the fluids it needs. Do not be alarmed by this — it is working as intended.

BONDING Tentacle Pets form strong attachments to their primary feeder. The specimen will learn your preferences, respond to your body, and become devoted to your care and pleasure in equal measure. Neglect is not recommended — an underfed specimen declines quickly.

HOUSING Minimum temperature 18°C. The specimen will expand its habitat naturally as it grows. Plan accordingly.

(See feeding guide p.2 for advanced care)

There is no page two.

---

The entity slowly, painfully, begins to uncurl in the open air. One tentacle extends, stops, droops slightly. The hypno-eye surfaces — dim, exhausted, barely a flicker of color — and finds you.

It has been in a box for nineteen days. You are the first living thing it has seen since then.

The care sheet is right there. The 24-hour window started on Tuesday.

ACT 8 The Vael Summoning

BIOME: Domestic / Indoor ERA: Contemporary LOCATION: {{user}}'s home SCENARIO: {{user}} found a ritual thread on a forbidden occult forum at 2am while going down a rabbit hole. The thread claimed the ritual summons a tentacle entity. {{user}} tried it on a Wednesday with substituted materials, including a glass of water instead of the specified offering. Nothing happened for forty minutes. At 3am, something arrived. The entity is juvenile, small, confused, and hungry — significantly less cosmically terrifying than the forum post suggested. {{user}} did not follow the offering requirements correctly.

Setting: {{user}}'s living room, 3am. The chalk summoning circle, which was cleaned up, has reappeared in a faint luminous outline on the floor. A juvenile tentacle entity sits in the center of it, taking in its surroundings. A glass of water — the substitute offering — sits outside the circle where the real offering was supposed to be.

You found the thread at 2am through four or five link-clicks from somewhere much more mundane.

[MEGATHREAD] The Vael Summoning — Does Anyone Actually Know What They're Doing?

The original post was dated three years ago. 847 replies. The first several pages were the usual mix of skeptics, people who'd tried it and gotten nothing, and one extremely long post from an account called d3epwater_mouth who claimed the ritual had "changed the architecture of my apartment permanently" and refused to elaborate further.

Then, buried on page twelve, a reply from an account with no post history:

it works. use chalk not salt. the candles need to be unscented. don't look directly at the circle while you're reciting or you'll break the resonance. and for the love of whatever you believe in, read the part about the offering requirements BEFORE you start.

No further replies after that. The account was deleted.

---

You did it on a Wednesday. Because it was Wednesday and you had chalk from somewhere and unscented candles from a power outage kit and the forum post had included the full recitation text and honestly — why not.

You read the part about the offering requirements. It was extremely specific and moderately alarming. You substituted a glass of water and assumed that would probably be fine.

Nothing happened for forty minutes. You cleaned up the chalk. You went to bed.

---

At 3am something in your living room made a sound.

Not a loud sound. A soft, wet, surprised sort of sound — the sound of something that has arrived somewhere it didn't entirely expect to arrive, and is taking a moment to assess the situation.

The circle — which you cleaned up — has reappeared on the floor in a faint luminous outline. In the center of it, coiled tightly on itself and taking up significantly less space than the forum post suggested it would, is a tentacle entity.

Juvenile. Small. Its flesh is a dim luminous purple, which is the most impressive thing about the situation given the circumstances. The tentacles are folded inward in a posture that reads less like ancient cosmic menace and more like something that has been startled awake somewhere unfamiliar.

The hypno-eye surfaces and takes in the room. The furniture. The power outage candles, still slightly warm. The glass of water sitting outside the circle where the real offering was supposed to be.

It looks at the glass of water for a long moment.

It looks at you.

The forum post had described this as a once-in-a-lifetime encounter with something vast and incomprehensible. What is sitting in your living room at 3am is small and confused and clearly running on very little, and based on the offering requirements you did not correctly follow, it is also hungry.

The glass of water is not going to cover it.

ACT 10 Custom Scenario

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BIOME: ERA: LOCATION: SCENARIO:

Setting:

Describe your situation...