#eilwyn

[ask-obt]

woo can you update your redbubble store plz

i literally need more rune stickers i am begging

// yuor wish is my command

get em here!

[ask-tssb]

do you like. worms.

Eilwyn: Some of us already are worms. So everyone better say they like worms, or else my feefees will be hurt.

Rune: Will they really?

Eilwyn: No, I don't care about your opinions that much.

[wiltcdroses]

closed starter ( protective + impulsive starter )

@cherricdwines | eilwyn & lucien

His skin gleaned with sweat from the heat of the crowd of bodies as El wiggled his way through the throng. It wasn't often he allowed Emrys to drag him out on a night out, but the other had mentioned Lucien's name and he'd all too willingly agreed. His crush on his brother's best friend was spinning wildly out of control, and despite his twin's many attempts at convincing him to "stop being such a coward and do something" — he hadn't.

He wasn't Lucien's type, was he? The other had always seemed more interested in his twin. They always were.

Still, his eyes scanned the crowd, searching, until they locked with his. Those hazel hues staring back at him with a silent plea. El tilted his head to the side as he took in the scene playing out in front of him.

A man, tall, dirty-blonde, and clearly more interested in Lucien than Lucien was in him, had a tight grip on his hips as the boy's lips grazed his neck. Jealousy seeped into El's veins, but even more so — concern. Lucien clearly wanted out, and so without a second thought, he made his way over.

Without thinking it through, his arm snaked around the boy's waist, pulling him flush against his torso, and he tried to ignore how good it felt — how right it was to have the other pressed against him. "I'd appreciate it if you took your grimy hands off of my BOYFRIEND," the words slipped from his lips, his tone ice cold and biting enough to make the stranger take a step back. El watched as he lifted his hands in the air, bumbling out an apology before scampering into the crowd.

Boyfriend, he had said. Oh, how he wished the words had been true. In reality, he was nothing to Lucien. A friend, perhaps, but a lover? Only in his dreams, in which he'd wake up — panting, hard, and swimming in a mix of emotions.

Lust. Longing. Guilt.

"Are you okay?" he asked softly, a protective arm still wrapped around Lucien's waist, loose enough that the boy could push out of it if he wanted.

He wanted to beg, to keep the boy in his arms a little longer. To live in the fantasy that Lucien was HIS.

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Promises Five: The Hunt

Dark!Morpheus x (female)reader, fantasy/medieval AU, 18+

Master List

Dream of the Endless had been promised a bride.

A/N: I'll offer song recs to folks who are interested in asks! Still dealing with some mental health issues, but pushing through. HOLY SHIT THE NEXT CHAPTER. 0,0 Liking is sweet, commenting is divine. Talk to the lonely hermit, people. Her dog is tired of her shit.

The hounds sang after the hinds, and their masters followed them under the trees.

In the distance, the high castle sat like a toy house from which all the dolls had escaped, spreading their games and pageantry through the forest with bells and horns to warn away the deer and fox. Huntsmen released other deer, fox, and fowl from prearranged cages out of sight of the king and his swarm of courtiers, so the dolls could play pretend at feats of skill.

The bard kept to the back, holding a tight rein on her grey mare – who didn’t understand why she couldn’t stop and graze if the bard insisted on moving so slowly – in the company of the ladies Alder. Eilwyn, who’d visited the bard’s chamber two nights past, glimmered and glowed, illuminated like a piece of art in the dappled sunlight and the eyes of a few dozen would-be suitors. Officially, no one could pay court until the Endless had his pick. Unofficially, Eilwyn had received six declarations of love, five bad poems about her eyes, one good poem about her hair, and an uninspired puzzle box containing a gaudy necklace without a single gem of value.

Eilwyn loved it all, of course.

But as the younger woman amused herself snaring hearts for her collection, the bard conversed with the Dowager Alder, Eilwyn’s grandmother.

“The city lights are unbearable,” the elder Alder insisted. “My eyes are bad enough as it is, but when every street and tavern glows like the moon, I can hardly make out the planets with my telescope, let alone the fainter stars. With the travel time, I’ll lose whole weeks of work, and gods know if I’ll be alive to note my calculations this time next year.”

Manly shouts and howling dogs suggested something ahead had died, or was about to. The bard wondered how many of these fools in their fine furs would discover the material cost of bloodsport when they couldn’t scrub the stains from their velvets in the morning.

“You say that every year.”

The Elder Alder, on her aged palfrey, squinted at the green canopy shielding her beloved sky and tutted.

“And one year I’ll be right, like I always am in the end.”

The woman was an astronomer, a mathematical magician, and the idea of death hadn’t scared her since the bard first met her as a young maid. The wheel of the heavens moved before her, and it would move after, and that was well enough if she could just understand the damn thing before she shuffled off this mortal coil. She’d written books, and papers, and more books, and the bard wondered if Death would really hold off until the universe held no more mysteries. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Of course, Lady Alder.”

Arthritis had long-since gnarled the lady’s hands, and they twisted over the saddle pommel and a hank of her horse’s main like knobby cypress knees, straining with the roll and sway of her palfrey’s gait.

“How far is the damned camp?”

Another lady – one of the fools hoping to wed her daughter to the Endless riding very far ahead near the king – seized the reins of her precious child’s horse and passed the odd trio. She did not look to the side. She did not look at anything. She lifted her nose far too high. And she nearly trotted over her own servants in passing.

The bard waved, and the daughter gawked with wide eyes as she was spirited away from poor influences and dangerous words. Really, any damage was already done, and fleeing the scene of battle only showed weakness. What kind of lesson would the girl really learn besides the fact that her mother enjoyed making a spectacle of her piety? Parents really had the strangest ideas about children.

“Grandmother!” Eilwyn exclaimed, clearly delighted.

The bard, equally delighted, couldn’t help herself. “Such language from so fair a lady. Shocking.”

The Dowager shifted in her saddle, face puckered in discomfort. “Hush, the both of you.”

Oh, if only she could. She laughed to imagine how much pain and trouble might’ve been saved. And how many adventures missed. They never would’ve been friends at all if the bard kept her own counsel.

“You expect a bard to hold her tongue?”

“The sun will freeze first.” The Dowager made a point of staring down her granddaughter, though, and her granddaughter made a point of smiling very prettily in reply. A lord several lengths ahead called for Lady Eilwyn’s attention, and she brokered an armistice by riding out of her grandmother’s line of sight entirely, leaving the two old companions to fight their own wars.

“My old bones are not made for riding.”

A jolt of pity seared the bard’s belly like the pain after eating a rotten fish. She’d rather purge it and be done, but the prickling discomfort would only grow with age. There was no course but to swallow it down and imagine it hurt much less than it would in time.

“Why didn’t you take the coach then? It could’ve brought you in comfort.”

Swollen knuckles flexing, the lady scoffed. “With the rest of the invalids? Don’t insult me.”

“But it’s so much fun, old friend.”

“Old,” Lady Alder muttered. “Yes. I am that.”

The bard shifted in her own saddle, wondering if she could stomach any of the inevitable banquet awaiting them.

“That wasn’t the word I’d hoped you’d echo.”

An eye sharper than any hawk’s pinned her from the side, and she felt like a child caught sulking. “If you need reassurance as to that, then you are not half so clever as you make yourself out to be.”

She seized on the opportunity for levity and smiled with all her teeth. “You’ve known me for a fool many years, have you not?”

“Aye, but a clever one.” The lady considered. “Most days.”

“Such praise you give me.”

“You fished for it so often the lake is empty.”

“Unfair but not untrue.”

The lady hummed her affirmation, welcoming in a moment of calm as they road in the wake of the hunt’s chaos.

Ahead, those most eager to prove themselves brought down smaller prey on their way to the day’s camp. Once all had a chance to refresh themselves with wine as their horses grazed, most would sally out again in the name of dead beasts. Dusk would bring them back, and they’d spend the night drinking, feasting, and debauching one another just outside the safe ring of torchlight, pretending to be very daring and wild for fucking someone in a bush.  A bit more hunting in the morning for those who could still sit straight in the saddle, and then all would return bloody and victorious to the castle.

The bard struggled to understand those who found the prospect of a royal hunt… thrilling. None worried to go home hungry, and the creatures they met in the wood came hobbled, with teeth filed and tusks blunted.

Rushing down a winding stair risked greater peril.

Bored by the day’s excitement, she let her thoughts spin out in wider and wider passes, circling the crux of the drama.

What did the King of Dreams dream of?

Revenge, she suspected. Vengeance on the king that may boil over on the land he ruled, and she must guide her favorites out of the flood’s path. Those practical answers satisfied the part of her that always craved a direction, a purpose, the next challenge to conquer, but the Dream King’s retribution sat like a wax seal over a longer letter. She would very much like to read that letter, even if it was dangerous, and unwise, and entirely reckless.

The Prince of Stories must have depths unfathomable, millennia upon eon of secrets and experiences carved into his bones. She wanted to dismiss her curiosity as nothing but interest in a vision of her future. Would she be like him in another thousand years? No. She’d still be human, and he was Endless. All the lifetimes of the Earth couldn’t teach her to understand one such as him.

But that didn’t mean she had no desire to try.

From farther up the line, a runner came jogging, peering up at the faces of the mounted company. He looked from one to another, seeking the right address to receive his message. The bard paused, recognizing the Everard house colors on servant’s tabard. Her horse stamped, whickering around the bit as her rider leaned out of the saddle to catch the young man’s eye. He saw her and darted to her side quick as an arrow.

“Is all well?” the bard asked.

“My lady Alis Everard and my lord Tomas Everard request you ride with them.”

The bard looked to Lady Alder. She hardly needed her friend’s permission, and none of the Alders were the sort to cherish grudges over perceived slights. But the bard didn’t want to leave her to ride alone, either. She needed good conversation and someone who cared enough to notice if she swayed on her horse.

“Oh, go tend to your nervous foal.” Lady Alder waved her off. “My own proud filly will see you pass and return to keep me amused. We favor different arts, but she has a sharp enough eye to see trouble riding by.”

“Thank you.” The bard pulled out of the column of riders, careful to avoid the servant at her side. “I’ll see you at the camp.”

Whatever Lady Alder replied was lost to the wind. Finally given her head, the bard’s mare leapt into a canter, her hooves thumping a second heartbeat that rattled up and through her rider. Old loam and the sharp green scent of freshly broken twigs gathered around her like a cloak as she moved just left of the path, removed from the rock and dust of the road.

The bard knew what colors to look for, and she let all definition blur as she moved past lords, ladies, knights, and their scores of attendants. They all looked so strange and out of place in the tunnel of green woods, dressed to stand out in a part of the world where blending in more often preserved life.

Near the front of the cavalcade, she found the Everards. Alis stared with wide eyes as the bard pulled even with her, mare prancing and snorting in frustration as her run came to an end. Her dramatic entrance pulled other eyes, and the king – only a few riders ahead – glanced back with frustrated disgust. Perhaps she should apologize that she wasn’t a stag. For all of the ruckus she’d heard from afar, she saw precious few carcasses dangling from the hunters’ belts.

“Thank you for coming in such haste,” Lord Everard said. Stifled amusement plucked at his lips, trying to lift them into a broad, laughing gale. It would be bad manners to laugh too loudly too near the king over a jest to which he wasn’t party, but Everard clearly struggled.

She answered with the grin he’d tried to school away. “Best way to travel. Now, what is the matter?”

Lord Everard gestured to his daughter, and she in turn tried to sink into the mud of the forest track. She hunched low, like she could melt into her boots. Her complexion had gone pale, despite the flush of embarrassment creeping up her neck, and her gloves creaked as her dainty hands squeezed into fists. The bard let the merriment fade, looking and listening beyond the girl’s silence.

Alis’s doe eyes flicked towards the shadow who rode beside her king, and the bard understood.

Dream of the Endless wore his customary black, with the blood-red ruby shining on his breast like a heart he’d ripped from his prey. His nightmare mount had teeth where it ought to have eyes, and it laughed with a man’s voice. He carried a raven on his shoulder rather than a hawk on his glove, and anyone who hadn’t met his sister may mistake him for an aspect of Death. Or something worse, perhaps.

Lord of Nightmares indeed.

“He frightens me,” Alis whispered, leaning close. “I’ve had nothing but bad dreams since I came to the castle.”

As she should. A glance at her father confirmed he thought the same. Just because he’d been forced to bring his child to this storm didn’t mean he didn’t fear the lightning. He had too much sense for this farce and too big a heart to let the girl suffer. If his wife were not busy running the estate, she’d be here to shelter and comfort their little girl, but in her absence, he must ask the bard to fill the role, and she gladly pulled Alis’s attention from bad dreams to simpler truths.

“And you’ve never had a nightmare before?” She didn’t chide. She reminded. Even in the security of her own bed in her own home, the girl had touched the darker shores of the Dreaming. Its king would not reach out to swallow her now, even though he prowled so near in the Waking. “Alis, believe me, you are safe.”

Alis pulled her spine straight, taking a deep, intentional breath that shuddered on the way in and trembled on the way out.

“Do you promise?”

“I promise that if I’m wrong, I’ll find a convenient sword to fall on, and you can say you told me so. Does that make you feel better?”

“A little.” Realizing what she’d said, Alis blanched and rushed to add, “But only because I know you’d come back!”

This time her father did laugh, and the bard reached to reassure her with an honest to gods giggle, when chaos erupted at the front. The king and his companions came to a dead stop, and without warning or order, those who rode behind struggled to halt in time. Rearing horses and shouts of alarm rolled down the line like a breaker, and in the wave of confusion that followed, the bard once again left the road to circle forward.

They’d reached the camp.

A glory of golden stitching over swaths of emerald, the vast tents might cover an entire town, and smoke rising with the smells of rosemary and stewed venison hinted at the delights within.

The display paled behind the entity waiting at the edge of the woods, however.

Golden eyes like licks of flame from the sun’s heart smiled over ruby lips. Welcoming and menacing and all-too pleased with themselves.

Power perfumed the air, like honeysuckle and ambergris, clashing with the winter-cold snap of Dream’s clear displeasure. The King of Dreams had lost the veneer of humanity, and he set himself against the intruder like the deepest hour of the night resisting the dawn.

Few creatures could stand up to the king’s guest. Even fewer commanded the presence of function beyond personification. The bard did not know who the stranger was, but she knew what they were.

Another fucking Endless.

Every inch screamed of passion, romance, obsession. Golden hair and loose-fit silks that flowed like water into a garment that was neither tunic nor gown inspired sensual curiosities. They rode a unicorn, a bay mount with cloven hooves, a lion’s tail, and a goat’s beard. The russet horn glinted with flecks of gold, like treasure winking through a smear of blood.

The King of Dreams sneered, lip curling as he shared a frigid greeting.

“Sibling.”

The Endless in their path laughed, bright as bells and smooth brandy. It sounded to the bard’s ears like trouble. “I hope you don’t mind if I join in your hunt. Big brother.”

[unit-5b]

voice headcannons

NOTE: this isnt necessarily what i imagine their exact voices to be like (some only being va's that are within the vocal range), but rather samples that are close to them.

@pmdobt by: wooled

sample origins:

rune: harley quinn

malachi: cantu/gumball's va

dielle: vee (owl house)

ingio: degenerocity on youtube

julius: postal 2 guy

yohan: lol_ik on youtube

keaton: hypertrent's chatot voice

guildmaster: Revtrosity

eilwyn: jax/micheal kovach

requiem: beatrix potter

[spirit-of-limbo]

Wretched beast... Likely will make this a purposed organism for one of my 15 iterator ocs (Still have so many to give lore and personalities to!). I think it's an interesting concept, and I'll probably make another hybrid like this too- maybe slugcat/kelp.

And this one is my dear slugcat Eilwyn, favorite scug of my crazy cat lady iterator oc named Spirits Of Swirling Glades!

[confusingwizard]

figuring out a charecter. Her name is Eilwyn Wunvos and she moved to bumfuck nowhere to finish her wizarding degree where the elements are stronger

[msb-lair]

Clutch #3582 - Porphyra/Laminaria

Mated On: 2024-05-15 # of eggs: 2 Hatched On: 2024-05-20

Progeny:

Hatchling 9519 (Eilwyn) - Undertide XXY Female, Honeydew Tide/Honeydew Toxin/Azure Soap, Common - 15 gems on 2024-05-26

Hatchling 9520 - Undertide Female, Honeydew Tide/Avocado Foam/Spruce Remora, Unusual - 15,000 on 2024-07-26

Comments: 

[anoras]

alright! ok! every single one (for now) of my tes ocs :)

Tegan Green-Song (LDB) / Meabh Vanry (HoK) / Branwen Adva Nerethi (Agent) / Eilwyn Green-Song / Sirawen Caemaire Sif / Hadriana Mzahnch

[ask-obt]

does anyone here want to have kids someday?

Eilwyn: Been there, done that...

Rune: Well I already talked about what I- wait. What. What?

Malachi: Yeah I... I don't think I caught that either?

Eilwyn: Oh yeah. I said "been there, done that".

Inigo: You have KIDS?!

Eilwyn: Yeah. That's what the "done that" means. Did that.

Dielle: Where... are they??

Eilwyn: Probably... in the ocean somewhere.

Rune: Probably? You don't know??

Eilwyn: Well most ocean pokemon don't really need parents... all the eggs just get dumped in a nursery and they're good there. I never really looked at the egg shells that close, they probably aren't all even Feebas...

[ask-tssb]

Eilwyn, what do you know about water pressure safety?

Eilwyn: I think I already made myself perfectly clear. You don't need me to repeat it, do you? Because I can, don't worry. I said, "I'll go slow so your tiny lungs don't explode."

[elwynten]

Eilwyn Tengee

[mcrtiferas]

         ━━━━         HIS HEART WAS THUDDING HEAVILY in his chest as he felt arms wrap around him. they sudden warmth and solidity of eilwyn’s presence startled him, stealing his breath for a moment before grounding him with an unexpected comfort. lucien had been inches away from shoving the pushy stranger off, but before he’d even found the nerve to do it, his friend had appeared. with firm hands at lucien’s waist, he acted as a steadying force in the blur of lights and movement.

the stranger’s retreat was satisfying, but eilwyn’s words lingered, sinking into his mind in a way that made his pulse race for an entirely different reason. boyfriend. the word had slipped from eilwyn’s mouth so naturally, with a possessive edge that sent a strange thrill through him. he couldn’t ignore the way his body responded, each nerve ending buzzing as though jolted awake by the simple yet loaded word.

lucien let himself relax against eilwyn for a moment, trying to focus on his breathing — trying not to let himself get too lost in the feeling of the other man’s arm around him. but it was impossible to ignore the steady rise and fall of eilwyn’s chest against his own, the faint scent of his cologne weaving into his senses. the music pounded around them, but it was muffled, a distant thrum as his attention zeroed in on the heat radiating off his friend.

“thanks,” he managed, his voice lower than he intended, a mix of gratitude and something unspoken. feeling eilwyn’s hand linger, lucien’s instinct was to savor it, to hold onto the connection for as long as he could.

after a lingering beat, he gently eased himself back, though he found himself unwilling to break contact entirely, he spun around and brought a hand to eilwyn’s forearm. “i was fine, though,” he added with a faint smirk, trying to inject a little levity. “probably could’ve handled it myself… but i appreciate the rescue.”

yet even as he said it, the weight of what could have happened if eilwyn hadn’t stepped in became painfully clear. the club, the crowd, the pulsing lights — all of it had been a blur before he appeared.

lucien took another step back, but his fingertips dragged down towards eilwyn’s wrist. he couldn’t bring himself to say more, but the weight of what he felt lingered between them, undeniable in the close press of bodies and the electric hum of the club.

closed starter ( protective + impulsive starter )

@cherricdwines | eilwyn & lucien

His skin gleaned with sweat from the heat of the crowd of bodies as El wiggled his way through the throng. It wasn't often he allowed Emrys to drag him out on a night out, but the other had mentioned Lucien's name and he'd all too willingly agreed. His crush on his brother's best friend was spinning wildly out of control, and despite his twin's many attempts at convincing him to "stop being such a coward and do something" — he hadn't.

He wasn't Lucien's type, was he? The other had always seemed more interested in his twin. They always were.

Still, his eyes scanned the crowd, searching, until they locked with his. Those hazel hues staring back at him with a silent plea. El tilted his head to the side as he took in the scene playing out in front of him.

A man, tall, dirty-blonde, and clearly more interested in Lucien than Lucien was in him, had a tight grip on his hips as the boy's lips grazed his neck. Jealousy seeped into El's veins, but even more so — concern. Lucien clearly wanted out, and so without a second thought, he made his way over.

Without thinking it through, his arm snaked around the boy's waist, pulling him flush against his torso, and he tried to ignore how good it felt — how right it was to have the other pressed against him. "I'd appreciate it if you took your grimy hands off of my BOYFRIEND," the words slipped from his lips, his tone ice cold and biting enough to make the stranger take a step back. El watched as he lifted his hands in the air, bumbling out an apology before scampering into the crowd.

Boyfriend, he had said. Oh, how he wished the words had been true. In reality, he was nothing to Lucien. A friend, perhaps, but a lover? Only in his dreams, in which he'd wake up — panting, hard, and swimming in a mix of emotions.

Lust. Longing. Guilt.

"Are you okay?" he asked softly, a protective arm still wrapped around Lucien's waist, loose enough that the boy could push out of it if he wanted.

He wanted to beg, to keep the boy in his arms a little longer. To live in the fantasy that Lucien was HIS.

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Promises Three: Subtle Dreaming

Dark!Morpheus x (female)reader, fantasy/medieval AU, 18+

Master List

Dream of the Endless had been promised a bride.

Chapter track: Rainbow - The Temple of the King - Algal the Bard

It has been... a rough couple weeks. But I'm back! Hope you enjoy! Your comments and questions mean the world! Special thanks to all you lovely rebloggers! I'm still trying to figure out how to respond without essentially reposting half a dozen times, but I see you, you make my week!

Subtle Dreaming

A knock on the door disturbed her work. It was an hour past midnight, when all but the youngest servants and ardent lovers had retired to their beds with heads full of dreams, a time a wandering mice and cat’s work.

But she wasn’t surprised, even less when she opened the door of her windowless chamber to find a young lady in her nightdress, wrapped in a shawl with wary hope in her eyes and a candle in her hand. Alis Everard. The youngest of a large family, and the only child still unmarried – and a child she was, barely thirteen, and of all the reasons the bard hated the king of Meiren, summoning such young suitors for his Endless guest might be the greatest. Her face hadn’t quite lost childhood’s rounded cheeks, and the seams on her nightgown had recently been let out after a growth spurt.

“I see your father is impatient,” the bard said. Wrapped in her own shawl over her own nightgown, she felt more than ever the noble’s equal. After such a long life, she understood better than most how little rank protected one from life and how much a peasant’s child was like a queen’s. She was the girl’s elder by far, but she’d been young once, and what youth didn’t go sneaking down corridors in the dark during their first trip to court?

“He bid me seek your counsel. May I come in?”

Stepping back, she ushered the girl into her sparse little room. “Of course.”

Once the girl was through, she moved to close the door, but a slippered foot darted through the gap to block it. “Not so quicky!”

The foot neatly kicked the door back open as the bard released it, and a young woman – who was, at least, properly a woman – swept by in a dressing gown of satin and a riot of chestnut curls. “I enjoy midnight jaunts, but not being spied on one.”

The bard did her very best not to smile, but failed entirely. She knew this late guest as well. Eilwyn Alder. The third generation in her family the bard had befriended, and she sat next to little Alis on the bed with the casual grace of someone entitled to it.

“My grandmother sent me for your thoughts, though I’m sure she’ll collect them for herself tomorrow. But I am a dutiful granddaughter, so here I am.” She blinked doe eyes as the door finally fell shut, poised and perfect coquettish grace. “So, what news? Or will I lose my beauty sleep for nothing?”

Pulling out a stool from beneath her tiny desk, the bard said, “I haven’t spent an hour in his presence, and I’ve had a long ride, so forgive me if I haven’t yet taken the full measure of the king’s guest and his schemes.”

Alis wriggled on the bed, twisting her hands up in her shawl. Her eyes bounced between shadows, looking for threats like the Dream Lord’s nightmares might crawl out of the walls to exact vengeance for some imagined slight. Not that they couldn’t, but the bard assumed Lord Morpheus had better things to do with his time than torment one overwrought teenager who didn’t want to marry him.

“What if he eats his bride on the wedding night? Like the Lindworm?”

Eilwyn scoffed, and the bard donned a gentle smile, even if she couldn’t keep the laugher from her voice.

“He’s Endless, not a dragon.”

“What does that mean?”

“Means you’d be better off with a dragon.”

The child curled into the corner of the bed, sinking into the blankets with her shawl swallowing the lower half of her face. Looking for comfort where her companions’ mirth had failed. The bard reached over to pat her knee, taking the opportunity to change the subject. “Honestly dragons aren’t so bad. One of my patrons is a dragon, you know. I was attending my yearly visit to his lair when your great, worried, noble parents called for me.”

A whisper of a promised story lured Alis’s eyes away from visions of doom. She glanced at Eilwyn, like she’d confirm the tale. The older girl gladly took up the role of expert.

“Everyone knows that,” she sniffed.

“Is it…” Alis mulled over the idea, confusing herself with her own bevy of questions. “Is it a… nice dragon?”

“These days he is. But he wasn’t always.”

The hook snared Alis’s attention, and her posture softened, though she didn’t leave the corner of the little bed. In fact, she made herself more comfortable, settling like a kitten, and a stab of rage that anyone thought this little girl ought to be considered as a wife seared through the gathering strands of the bard’s story.

She took a blanket and settled it over the child as she began to speak, shielding her from a king’s machinations, a world too big for little hands, and prying eyes.

.O.O.O.

Dream of the Endless retired to the chambers the King set aside for his use, though he had little use for them at all. He would not sleep. He had no intention of entertaining in the parlor, or writing missives at the richly appointed desk. There was no book on the shelves he did not already possess, and he left the food prepared for him to grow cold and stale on the table.

He did sip the wine, and in the darkest hours he found his amusement in wandered the sleeping minds of the castle. Boredom drove him. Cruelty, even. Vengeance called for the king to atone for his wounded pride, and the decade since the human’s error only gave Dream time to image new and wondrous torments. He wanted to watch the king’s schemes crumble in the dread nightmares prowling the would-be suitors’ dreams. He enjoyed the seeds of hate planted in parents’ hearts, the doubt in subjects who’d been nothing but loyal until this gathering.

The king’s story would be a horror, a kind of tragedy that left wounds in his lands and subjects the turn of generations would not heal. These seven days would be the fuse, a prologue to terror and loss. A lesson none would soon forget, lest they bring such punishment on their own loves.

He drifted, savoring the fears he would shape to his own ends. Until words snared his attention. A half-heard tale of a dragon spinning through recent memories of a soft touch and a smile in the face of inescapable dread.

He found a young mind loosely tethered to the Dreaming, caught in the tides running between the conscious and subconscious, where words and images of the Waking cast strange reflections in the fading thoughts before sleep. She led him to a plain, simple room deep in the castle. A place for high-ranking members of staff, perhaps. Utilitarian and uninspiring. Not a place this noble child belonged. But she was not alone, and as she dozed, Dream borrowed her senses.

Voices. One he recognized. The bard the king so detested. He knew her as he knew all dreamers, and he sensed his sister’s touch upon her.

She spoke of him.

“He’s the Prince of Stories. A bride market is beneath him. This is how political unions for picky lords looking for pretty faces are arranged, not how one of the most powerful creatures to ever live seeks a partner,” the bard said.

She was not wrong, of course. The story weaver spied the loose strings in the tale, the ragged ends that did not match, though she had yet to understand the pattern he wove.

“Whatever he wants, it isn’t love or a warm body in his bed. There’s something else. I just have to figure out if that something is a danger to any of you.”

So, loyalty did grow in the king’s court. Just not to the monarch. Dream felt the peace the bard’s presence brought the dreamer half-snared in her sleep. A quiet, sure thing. The confidence children had in oak trees their parents and grandparents climbed when they were young.

The other voice in the room did not speak as a child. This one was old enough for caution, and it worried for the old oak as well as those who sheltered beneath.

“To us, I should think.”

Did the bard not fear him? Had she stood outside as the storyteller for so long she’d forgotten she could be part of them as well?

“Whatever happens, dear, I’ll survive it.” Her only worry was for those she perceived as in her care. The children of children she’d watched grow. A touch carried through the dreamer’s skin and into their subconscious, a kind voice leading her back to the Waking. “It isn’t time to sleep yet. You must return to your room…”

The fragile link collapsed, and the bridge between the servants’ quarters and the noble guest room dissolved.

Lord Morpheus, Dream of the Endless, sat in his darkened chambers in the court of a damned king, and thought as he sipped from his wine that he would enjoy seeing the bard at work. He must amuse himself for seven days, after all, until the time of the agreement ran out, and she was a surprising creature.

The most surprising he’d seen in some time.

[lyveesaivin]

- eilwyn of rohan (aes) 

[spirit-of-limbo]

Beast... Love this thing OC slugcat :D named Eilwyn by my brother