'This woman's a stalker.'

The realization hits Veliky hard enough to twist her face into a battered grimace. That sweet-as-candy smile bears quite a sinister aura as the moon elf explains a supposed 'meeting' and goes into detail about things Veliky would really rather that a stranger didn't know.

What Veliky doesn't understand is who the hell would stalk *her* of all people? They think she's... cute? Such an insult would normally offend Veliky to no end, but the sheer revulsion she feels in her stomach overrides such fury.

For a moment, she looks past the elf to see someone she's far more familiar with. This doesn't mean she's any happier to see him, nor does it mean she understands his intentions any more. This is the second time that this elven assassin has broken into her property and, apparently, deigned not to make an attempt on her life? Why's there a smoreling on his shoulder? Have these two just been screwing around in her studio? For how long?

She turns her befuddled eyes to the handkerchief that's being offered to her. Needless to say, she does not accept it. This woman's clearly deranged, and Veliky herself is intimately familiar with multiple means that a handkerchief could hide malicious substances. But frankly, she doesn't know what else *to* do.

'What are people supposed to do in situations like this...?' Veliky has plans and backup-plans for every danger imaginable, but this is not a scenario she ever imagined. 'Should I just zap her and run? No, that might provoke her, and I don't know how powerful she is. Would be better to just talk her down and wait for backup. Besides, Cyran was probably hired for this without having a clue, and he apparently *does* have a moral compass, so I doubt he'd let anything hap... happen...'

She freezes. And all that disgust fades from her face, leaving something she can't hide: wide-eyed astonishment.

On the moon elf's wrist. That bracelet... It's her.

Veliky's speechless. She didn't understand before, but she knows even less now. Suddenly, it's as if all of her is pulled into reality. No subconscious calculations, no habitual reading of body-language, no parsing words. All of the sounds are so much fuller, and the lights... otherworldly.

What is this...? She hates it. She can feel that anxiety creeping over the back of her mind like a hawk's talons, rising in her throat like bile. She listens to Cyran speak but, like a child eavesdropping on its parents, she can only barely understand his words. Even the bat's cry is just a bit of white noise. And all the while, she can't remove herself from the moon elf's eyes whose violet irises are full of such...

What's the Common word for it? She can't remember clearly... In Halfling, it's called atcoahtam. It fills her with so much dread. She can feel her heartbeat hastening, her breath becoming ragged and shallow. And she can hear that little voice in her head, whispering to her. 'Faa vol vida-ekk, faa vol vida-ekk, faa vol vida-ekk,' again and again and again. It's getting louder...

She's snapped out of her trance by a strange, innocent little noise. Ding!

She knows that sound. Even now, it's unmistakable. And suddenly, she becomes much more aware of the fact that her face is covered in something. She traces a finger along her cheek, and looks at it.

...Batter? Wait.

She looks up and to the oven that just emitted the sound. Her perplexment is renewed. "Are you two...?!"

Cirice cocks her head innocently as Cyran speaks, confused when he says their intentions aren’t nefarious. Why would she think that? This is a surprise party.

Her expression falls to concern as Veliky’s form seems to freeze, her face a mix of emotion and her breathing coming ragged and uneven. Its like she’s panicking, this wasn’t the reaction Cirice had hoped for. Perhaps they scared her more than surprised her?

The oven’s ding breaks the tension and Cirice straightens her back instantly, “The muffins are ready!” She presses the handkerchief into Veliky’s hand and breezes over to the oven to take them out with a pair of oven mitts. “I’m sorry I couldn’t find out what your favorite flavor was Vel, so I brought options. Starberry, pumpkin and chocolate. I tried to put the marshmallow guys in too before I realized they were alive, but they’re too cute to eat!”

Holding up the fresh baked goods for inspection she gives them a good look. Perfect. The best muffins she’s ever made. She sets them on the counter to cool, smiling happily.

The muffins handled she comes back over and looks at Veliky with big, joyful eyes. “Sorry about that. Now where were we? Oh right! I’m Cirice, Cirice Lunestre. And this is my godfather, Cyran, though it seems you already know one another?" Theres a question in that but she drops it quickly, too excited to dwell on that. "It’s nice to officially meet you!! I hope you aren’t too mad, I know you’re always busy and don’t like to take time for yourself, so I thought a surprise party was the best idea for seeing you again.”

Her smile becomes a little more bashful, “I also feel I have a lot to make up for. Since last time we didn’t see eye to eye… I hope you can forgive me.” She gives Veliky a low bow, her back perfectly perpendicular, in the style of asking forgiveness of her homeland, the most sincere way she can make the request.

Cyran had seen Miss Veliky express a myriad of emotions in the past. Anger, desperation, authority. He had yet to see fear, this kind of unabashed, brazen, doe-eyed look, glassy and faraway, like she couldn’t even hear a single word that Cyran or Cirice were saying.

… Had they truly startled her that badly?

Was this his fault?

Cyran quickly checked himself. He wasn’t armed, nor were any of his daggers visible at the moment, but that was little comfort. Miss Veliky already knew that Cyran was an assassin, and that he’d made an attempt on her life once before. He pursed his lips, attempting to diminish his presence as much as possible, step back into the shade cast in the dim light of Miss Veliky’s apartment.

The sound of the timer brought Miss Veliky back to reality, though - the gears behind her sharp eyes turned as she put together exactly what they were here for. Cyran followed Cirice’s movements while the younger elf breezed back into the kitchen with an air of nonchalance, pulling the pastries out of the oven. The intensity of the smell increased, fruit and pumpkin and chocolate blending together in a cacophony that would have made Cyran hungry in any other situation. Given the mounting nerves in the pit of his stomach at Veliky’s appearance, and the strange circumstances of her apparent friendship… or lack thereof with Cirice, he wasn’t sure he was quite in the mood for muffins or merriment anymore.

Though he still wasn’t quite sure how Cirice could know so much about Veliky despite the fact that they had yet to officially meet, Cyran still felt a flash of warmth when Cirice introduced him as her godfather, a feeling he was sure he would never tire of. He could not help the fond smile that crept onto his face, up until the moment that Cirice asked in not as many words how he and Veliky knew one another.

“I. Um. We met through work.” He offered, glancing at Veliky to see if she would contradict him. To see if she would be the one to ruin him. “… You know, business and such.” He didn’t elaborate, hoping she would come to the conclusion that he was speaking of the orphanage. But Cirice had already moved on, far too excited at the prospect of spreading happiness to Miss Veliky, and… offer her apology. Cyran’s eye widened as the young woman dipped into a low bow, in remorse for a wrongdoing Cyran had no knowledge of. What in the world had happened between them?

That was when he spotted the bracelet on Cirice’s wrist, one he’d noticed before when he visited her in the Crescent Isles. It had seemed familiar for reasons he could not place, but now that the memories were fresh in his mind, he felt foolish for having forgotten in the first place.

Oh. Cirice is Veliky’s special friend.

That made sense the more that Cyran had thought about it. Even though the two had never met face to face, somehow managed to touch the lives of others, burrow past their armor until she had wedged herself into their heart, nestled there until she could not be removed, no matter how one might want to sever any connection. She simply knew how to charm others, even the most unflappable of CEO’s. If there was anyone capable of broaching Veliky’s stalwart defenses, it was Cirice.

He forced some of the tension out of his shoulders, unsure what else to offer in a situation like this. “Cirice told me we were coming to visit a friend of hers.” In a way, he supposed that was true. “I apologize for any scare we might have caused.” He could not bring himself to look at either Veliky or Cirice, demeanor a far cry from a loving godfather or deadly assassin. He was merely a man, one that had been placed between a rock and a hard place.

"..."

Everything that happens serves only to send Veliky deeper into bewilderment. Every explanation, every show of kindness, every... apology? She can't wrap her head around it. She tries to grasp onto any detail for elucidation, but they all slip past her, like the little marshmallow-creatures that do the same. It makes her anxious; when information is one's weapon and shield, feeling oblivious is like feeling naked.

But, as she gradually recovers from that stupor, little mechanisms in her brain grind to life, asking questions (the ones that form answers won't function a while longer). Why would they break into her apartment just to make muffins; couldn't they have just brought them to her? Why does Cyran become so reticent at the question of their meeting? Why did this Cirice - the Red Rogue - refer to her as a "friend?" And how do they know so much about Veliky?

Wait... Veliky thinks she may have an answer to that last question, though it brings her no comfort. Yoci's been acting strange, nervous but also smiling and even giggling. Ever since that night...

Veliky can't help but grimace. 'Dammit, Yoci...'

...She thinks she's ready to speak again. She's still shaken, but she's regaining her ability to conceal it. And though her thoughts are hazy and her heart's rhythm is unsteady, one thing is prominently clear to her.

"This is absurd." All considered, it's a surprisingly calm response given Veliky. She can't harness any anger in such a mystifying circumstance.

She looks to the floor, knowing that she should stand. But the process, now, seems a foreign concept to her. It's only a tedium of muscle-memory that allows her to rise to an unimpressive height, examining the batter-stains upon herself with disdain.

"Ugh... You realize this is a crime, right?" she asks, glancing to Cyran but not meeting Cirice's eyes. "Breaking and Entering, theft, conspiracy and whatever the hell else you did to get in here. All for..." She looks at the round-topped pastries on the counter. She doesn't actually know the word in Common; they're called 'sehflun' in Halfling. What'd the Rogue call them...? "muffins?"

The word feels strange on her tongue, but reminds her how hungry she is. She ate a boiled egg for breakfast, a lettuce sandwich for lunch, and skipped dinner for a meeting with Castelian. But still, she can't just accept food from near-complete strangers. Especially not this sort of food.

With another groan, she flicks some batter off of her hands. It lands upon and topples one of the smorelings, who finds the whole prospect delightful.

"I don't know what you heard - obviously enough to intercept me - but my schedule is my business." There's that coldness. "You didn't 'cause me any scare,' I don't do parties, and I don't like... muffins.^[1]" And there's that feeling. She's lying^[2]. And though Cirice's face falls at the remark, Cyran sees right through it.

“There’s no need to pretend.” Once more, Cyran speaks with a sharp, certain tone, able to parse out her lies as easily as he had upon their first meeting. His eye flicks towards Cirice, the younger elf momentarily looking crestfallen. “Cirice put a lot of effort into picking out flavors for you.” He doesn’t truly understand the situation between the two women, but there’s one thing he’s certain of - friendship for a woman like Veliky seems to be rare. If Cirice wants to try to reach out, he won’t let those efforts go to waste.

But Veliky just looks baffled. Pretend? He's got to be bluffing. "I'm not-"

Cirice cuts her off with a sad smile, "No, it's okay. You're right. We did break in for this surprise. I-I didn't think you'd allow yourself the pleasure of company otherwise. It wasn't about the muffins, though EVERYONE likes muffins... I just wanted to see you again and..." She trails off, with a little sniffle. "I'm sorry Veliky... I should have known this was not something you'd enjoy..."

'Why?!' Cirice's words have a visceral reaction within Veliky, and it can be seen in her widening eyes and the sudden stiffness in her form. 'Why did she want to see me again, so badly?! And why... why does it hurt?'

'Faa awett na nopt.'

She closes her eyes, face wrinkling into a grimace. 'Dammit, Veliky! Faa dart... You can't be doing kahn like this. You're supposed to be above this. No distractions. You need to tell her off and get both of them out of here.'

She lets in a long, congested sniff, and exhales. 'No weakness. No fear.'

She opens her eyes with cold resolve.

---

'What the fuck are you doing, Veliky...?'

She can feel the elves' eyes upon her, but they aren't her concern. She looks forward at three of the most daunting opponents she's ever come face-to-face with: starberry, pumpkin and chocolate, all clad in pastry-mail.

In the end, she couldn't do it. As much as she tried and jeered, she couldn't bring herself to say 'no.' And now, she sits in her high-seated chair, with such dreadful expectations upon her.

They look just like the baker in Hlothshresh used to make them... The reminiscence is a nostalgia both terrible and warming.

Her emotions, visible as they are, are exasperated. 'Dammit... Punrit-vollo talikahn.'

She lets out a sigh. This is not going to be easy.

...

Actually, not all of them are quite like the ones she remembers. While pumpkin and chocolate muffins were commonplace, this third muffin is an odd sight. She's heard of starberry before, but never tried it.

...She supposes that, if she must, the unfamiliar one would be the easiest candidate.

One last glance at Cirice, Cyran; their expectant eyes; and she lets in a deep breath, stilling breath. If she has to do this, it's better now than never. And so, even as her body and mind scream to stop her, she reaches forward and takes the muffin from its plate. It feels so fluffy in her gloved hand; she could probably use it as a pillow if she wanted to - and if it weren't so small. Did the elf-lady think that she would eat lighter, just because she's smaller?

Now that she thinks about it, that assumption isn't terribly unreasonable. Veliky's often just astonished at how little humans and elves eat, given their size. 'I could eat dozens of muffins this big-'

She cancels that thought. It twinges her heart in ways she doesn't want to think about right now. And with the muffin's warmth gradually fading, she can't waste much time.

She gathers the strength. Her heartbeat rises... and then she shoves the entire muffin into her mouth and begins to chew.

To her, it's a challenge. Like being dared to eat a bug. She just tries not to think about it. The quicker she can chew the fluffy sweetness into something she can swallow, the sooner this will be over. But it's taking so much longer than she thought it would, and she doesn't know why. She used to be able to wolf these down. And as it lingers, she can feel the starberry's unique flavours sparking on her tongue. As she diverts some of the pastry into her cheek, she can feel just how fluffy the texture really is. It fills her with dread...

Her chewing slows, and her face becomes less conflicted. Cyran was right. She can't pretend. No matter how much she tries, there's a truth that she simply can't deny.

"It's really good..." An honest truth, sounding almost defeated, muffled through a mouthful of muffin-delight. She has yet to realize that there's a tear on her cheek.

---

1. Smooth Talking
2. Insight Rune (Cyran)

Anxiously, Cirice watches Veliky as she gets herself together. Her disappointment is great at the little CEO’s cold and callousness. But Cyran sticks up for her, coming to her defense like the hero he is to her. But Veliky is right, she should have expected this reaction. Yoci had tried to warn her that this would likely end up messy, but she had foolishly reassured her gnomish friend that no matter what happened she’d keep her spirits up. Under the unwavering stare of Veliky her spirits are diminished, her hopes dashed under that cold glower.

Veliky is right, this was a silly, childish plan and she was foolish for thinking it up. Perhaps they should cut their losses and just leave… But there’s still hope. After some internal deliberation Veliky seems to give in, sitting down at the table with them as both she and Cyran watched her try the starberry muffin with baited breath.

As Veliky glances her way once more Cirice gives her the most hopeful look she can, praying that the recipe she used was indeed the ‘best starberry muffin recipe in all of Charon’ as told by the author Shaa Ruhnn. Veliky picks up the muffin, considers it briefly and shoves the whole of it into her mouth. Cirice watches her expressions, holding her breath as the quarterling’s chewing slows. She doesn’t like it.. This was all for naught. She messed up…

“It’s really good…” the muffled truth tumbles from Veliky’s mouth with a tiny bit of crumbs and Cirice can see on her face a tear on her cheek. Relief, cool and soothing washes over Cirice’s form and without thinking she squeals in delight and wraps Veliky in a warm, excited and loving hug.

“I’m so glad you like them! Please eat your fill! I made lots! I wanted to make sure there were enough for all three of us!” She chatters like a happy little songbird, squeezing the little mogul carefully to her chest. She reaches down and takes Veliky’s hand in hers, their bracelets knocking together with a soft wooden ‘thunk.’

"Cyran try them, let me know if you like them, I made pumpkin because its your favorite!" She trills, "Starberry is my favorite Vel, is it yours?"

There it was again. That odd sensation, a realization that felt not unlike the first plunge into ice-cold water. And with it, confirmation of that strange pattern he’d sensed upon their last meeting, too. Why was it with all that forceful charisma and assertive personality, the only person Veliky chose to inflict wounds on was herself? Before he could think about his place here, Cyran had already jumped in. Interestingly enough, he received that same reaction - bafflement, narrowed-eyed confusion, the look of a woman who had no idea the true weight of the false expectations she placed upon herself. Cyran fell silent once more, stunned speechless.

The damage had been done, regardless. Cirice’s enthusiasm had begun to dim at Veliky’s denial of her extension of friendship, eyes brimming with unshed tears. Cyran hesitated, moving to put a gentle hand on Cirice’s shoulder. She had tried, and approached the situation with her own brand of well-meaning love and affection, but he supposed there were just some walls that weren’t meant to be climbed.

“It’s alright, dear.” He whispered for her ears only, attempting to crack a good-humored smile. “That just means more for us to share in the library, right?”

Veliky closed her eyes. Pursed her lips. For a moment, Cyran thought he could see the desperate prayer in her posture. Had she regained her composure enough to finally reprimand them? He did not want to stick around to find out if they were about to be on the receiving end of another scathing tongue-lashing. He picked up his pace, ushering Cirice to start making her way for the stairs.

And then, a miracle happened.

---

If one had asked Cyran, long ago, if he ever thought he would find himself breaking into in the kitchen of one of Charon’s largest business moguls, waiting on bated breath for her to sample taste a baked good, he doubted he would have ever believed them. And yet, here he was, standing with Cirice and Miss Veliky - who, from the pinched expression on her face, one might have assumed was about to swallow bogwater from the Marsh Flats than consume a tasty treat.

But this kind of concession on Veliky’s part, he thought, was more monumental than the moment felt.

She reached for a starberry muffin first - Cirice’s favorite. Cyran felt her stiffen beside him, watching Veliky’s expression with an almost desperate concentration, worried about what Veliky’s reaction would be. Cyran wasn’t even sure himself how she might react. If he were being honest - a secret he would take to his grave, as far as Cirice was concerned - he found starberry a smidge too sweet. The agonizing seconds stretched on as Veliky chewed slowly, Cirice waiting for the feedback from perhaps the harshest critic she’d ever faced.

“Oh!”

Was Miss Veliky… crying?

“Are you alright?” Cyran asked, alarmed, but Cirice had already beat him to the punch, moving to wrap Veliky up in a tight hug. Wood THUNKED where their friendship bracelets knocked together from the movement.

“How did you know they were my favorite…” Cyran trailed off. He was almost certain he’d never told her his preference, but Circe was already lost in her own world, clinging to Veliky like the two were off in their own world. One that he could observe, but not intrude upon. Cyran didn’t mind being the outsider here - he was just happy Cirice was making friends. He stood a few paces away tucked in the safety of a corner shadow, working his way through a pumpkin muffin, until Cirice finally spotted him and beckoned him over.

Cyran blinked, pointing to himself. Who, me?

Cirice’s giggle in response seemed to say, who else, silly?

Tension crept into his shoulders, unbidden. Would Veliky even want him to get so close to her? But… Cirice had asked, and he would not deny her this. Hesitant, he stepped up, only for Cirice to bridge the gap as soon as he got close - she grabbed his wrist and pulled him in until he was on Veliky’s other side, holding close to Cirice and connecting all three. The embrace felt stiff, halted, with two people entirely unused to affection being held tight by someone who offered it freely. Cirice’s love made you feel like you were important, someone worthy of it somehow. It was a daunting feeling.

But Cyran would allow himself to be selfish, for a moment.

“The pumpkin muffins were delicious, dear.” He assured her. “If you hadn’t told me you made them I would have believed you brought them straight from Moonglade.”

'What's happening?' It's all Veliky can think as she's pulled into an embrace, and then into another; one cheek buried in the silk of Cirice's blouse, the other caressed by Cyran's fabric. She feels like a little slice of pickle, in a sandwich with no other toppings and far too much bread. She's practically being smothered. Cirice is holding her so tightly, with so much atcoahtam; and Cyran's awkward clutch reminds her so dreadfully of when she held Astrid with a similar stiffness. And, even though it goes against everything she's been taught - by Him, and by herself - she can't bring herself to protest. For her thoughts are locked in a turmoil of their own.

'What...? Why? Is this okay? Am I allowed... to have this?'

In the gap between her captor's arms, Veliky can still see the other muffins - pumpkin and chocolate - sitting on their plate. This all feels so wrong.

'No... No, they don't know. Stop. Stop, please...' she silently urges them. '...I don't d-'

What was that? Cirice said something. A question... her favourite muffin?

"Umm... A-Apple cinnamon." Her voice is quiet, unsteady and uncertain, opposite in polar to the usual voice she equips.

Cirice blinks and says "Really?? I have a recipe for that but no apples!" In a distraught tone, pulling her cookbook "Shaa's Underground Muffin Book" out of her bag.

'Oh... Wait, Shaa?!' Veliky realizes, staring wide-eyed at the book but saying not a word. 'Shaa... Muffins? No. That's too silly. This has to be a dream. That's it; I'm dreaming. A Red Rogue and an assassin, breaking into my house to bake muffins? No. That'd never happen. Dart, Veliky... Nobody would do that for you.'

She blinks, and the world melds before her. Little glimmers, and blinding lights, all melting together like an oil painting.

'So warm..... Is this........ what it felt like...?'

...

Perhaps it was the warmth that they shared with her. Perhaps it was exhaustion from the long day, and the day before. Perhaps it was the torrent of affection she was shown, whelming and pure. Whatever it was that caused it, Veliky eyes have drifted closed, and she lies between Cirice and Cyran, sound aslumber. Her rises slowly, and falls gently, in a feverish rhythm that brings to mind images of youth, and the coveted safety found only in a parent's arms. In so little time, the chaos is gone. She looks peaceful...

Actually, in reference to feverishness, her forehead is rather warm...

“Vel?” Cirice asks, surprised as the quarterling’s eyes flutter closed and she falls asleep cradled in the cocoon of their arms. Her heart is beating quickly and her face is warm to the point of being fevered, but she looks comfortable and peaceful here between them.

Cirice looks up at Cyran with a giggle and carefully picks up Veliky’s sleeping form, lowering her voice to a whisper. “She must have been really, really sleepy, huh? She works so hard. Yoci was telling me that no one is as hard on anyone as much as Veliky is hard on herself.” She gently brushes a stray golden strand from her sleeping friend’s face.

“Let’s put her to bed. Although… I wanted to talk to her more…” She sighs with a sad smile. “I’m sorry Cyran, I should have told you more. I didn’t realize you guys knew each other.”

She slowly carries Veliky over to the too-large bed and sets her down with care, pulling off her shoes and setting them aside and unbuttoning the top buttons of her suit so that she isn’t hindered in her sleep. Pulling up the blankets to tuck her in makes her look so small and lonely, floating alone in a comfortable void.

“...I think I’m going to stay until she wakes up. I don’t want to leave her like this. She deserves some comfort. You don’t have to if you don’t want to though, Cyran…” She takes off her own shoes and corset and slowly climbs into the bed with to cuddle Veliky so she isn’t alone.

Cyran felt the shift in his arms before he saw Miss Veliky’s eyes flutter closed. He blinked, craning his neck to get a better look at her. At first, he wasn’t sure he’d believed that she’d merely fallen asleep - the stern woman whose guard had been so raised upon their first meeting that she’d hurled insult after insult at him had become so comfortable in their presence that she’d drifted off. Or perhaps she’d been so tired that her body simply forced itself to shut down in response.

“… Miss Veliky?” He pressed a hand against her forehead - cool skin met iron heat. In her sleep, Veliky grimaced. “She doesn’t feel sick…” He hoped they hadn’t overwhelmed her. He kept her gently upright, pressed against his arm while Cirice explained that she worked long, exhausting hours. That did not come as a surprise to Cyran. Miss Veliky apparently had a habit for acting as if she were as timelessly efficient and infallible as her steel constructions. “Is this Yoci the one that gave you her address and information?”

It occurred to Cyran that must have been the correspondence Cirice was showing him earlier. If it hadn’t been from Veliky herself, then it must have been from someone close to her, someone that worried about her well-being. He kept his own encounter with the gnomish engineer to himself - partially because the circumstances of their meeting were less than friendly, and partially because Yoci held no memory of it in the first place.

He nodded and handed Veliky over to Cirice, helping the two into the rather large bed that he’d noticed earlier. It seemed to dwarf the small woman, who looked…still troubled in her sleep, even in this moment’s peace. “You don’t need to apologize. I had no idea the two of you were acquainted, either…” There was an unspoken question in his tone. But asking Cirice outright how they met would open the floor for her to ask questions of him in turn, ones he wasn’t sure how to answer. He wasn’t entirely sure that she wouldn’t hate him if she’d learned how close his blades had once been to slicing Veliky’s throat. “All things considered, this meeting went as well as it could have gone. Perhaps you can catch up more with her later, once she’s more rested.”

He turned to look at the stairwell when Cirice exclaimed that she would be staying to make sure Veliky slept well. They really should leave, while it was still safe… but if there were no guards after them, then surely it would not hurt to give Cirice some peace of mind.

“… I’ll stay with the two of you, if it’s all the same. Why don’t you get some rest yourself? It’s been a long day-“

The sound of a soft little snore, as tiny as a mouse’s peep, interrupted him. When Cyran looked behind him, Cirice had already slipped off into dreamland, arms wrapped around Veliky, whose cheek was pressed against Cirice, looking as relaxed as Cyran had ever seen her.

Well I supposed that answers that question.

Cyran stood, unable to stop the smile on his face as he moved to Cirice’s side, making she was tucked under the blankets properly. Once he made sure that both were warm and comfortable, he leaned down and pressed a small kiss to the side of Cirice’s temple. Then, with gentle hands, careful not to disturb the slumbering occupant, he moved to make sure Veliky was secured under a pillow and comfortable, undoing the tight ribbon keeping her hair up so it was no longer tugging at her scalp. She was mumbling something under her sleep, something Cyran couldn’t quite make out. Once they were both comfortable, Cyran sat at the edge of the bed, cross legged, in silent vigil.

He would keep watch, and make sure nothing disturbed them.

They both needed the rest.

As the minutes stretched on, though, Cyran found his own energy waning. Perhaps it was because of the smell of muffins still lingering in the air, or because he felt at ease around Cirice - and even Veliky - but he found his eyelids growing heavy, and fatigue settling into his bones. Oh, he tried to keep himself awake, but without realizing it, the shadows began to pull him under until Cyran too stood between the waking world and the dusk, laying next to Veliky and Cirice in his trance.

But this time, something odd happened.

This time, he was not alone.^[1]

---

1. Cyran’s Dreamwalker (Cyran and Cirice)

Instead of the familiar, comfortable dark that usually greets her behind her eyes, Cirice finds herself in a strange place. Standing on nothing, surrounded by vast grey nothingness tinged with shadow and purple, twisting about against soft light. The feeling was strange, not wholly of one place or another, but as if several places at once, several places and yet nowhere.

“Mother Moon?” She calls out in a quiet voice, confused and a little concerned to find herself all alone. Her dreams have always been the dominion of Mother Moon, not hearing her voice was… Eerie. Uncomfortable. What could it mean? Had she lost her connection to Mother Moon once more? That thought send a shiver of spear through her whole body. No... She still felt the magic within her... Was she somewhere else entirely? She remembers falling asleep next to Veliky in her bed, the quarterling’s small weight soft and comforting against her. And now she’s here…

Alone.

Or so it seems at first. For soon she is surprised to find Cyran there with her.

“Cyran!” She cries out in relief, throwing herself into his arms, “What’s happening? Where are we??”

Cyran’s awareness came back to him slowly. He was not often one that was transported to other worlds in his sleep, where his rest was more a meditation or a trance than anything. When he opened his eyes - when had he drifted off in the first place? - rather than finding himself in Veliky’s room, tucked neatly away in a world of realism and pragmatism, he found himself in an amalgamation of an empty room, ever-shifting, unable to decide what it wanted to look like for more than a second.

While he stood there, dumbfounded, the pull of the shadows felt stronger. A presence in the back of his mind tugging harder than ever. Darkness clung to his boots, inching up his pant leg until it made its home there. The weightless sensation grew until there was a buzzing in the back of his mind.

Welcome home, something seemed to whisper. And it would be so easy to simply lose himself in that sensation. Gods, he was so tired-

“Mother Moon?”

The soft whisper echoed in his mind, cutting through the deafening silence. Cyran didn’t need to see her to know in his heart who was with him.

“Cirice.” He breathed a sigh of relief, turning around to face his goddaughter, the only other person in this desolate place. The shadows melted away the second that she threw herself to him - he caught his light in his arms and held her close. “I don’t know. But wherever this is, whatever’s happening… we should keep moving forward.”

It wasn’t safe to stand still for him. That much, Cyran knew as readily as he knew his own name.

He held onto her arm, to prevent them from getting separated. Tried not to let the shake permeate his hands so she didn’t feel his unease. “Maybe if we keep walking, we’ll find something different?”

He wondered why Cirice would call to her goddess in her dreams. He wondered why she was here in the first place… Cyran hadn’t truly dreamt in almost ten years, not since he became more of a ghost than a living man. So many questions lingering in the back of his mind, echoing in the void. But those would wait for later. For now, he and Cirice would navigate the unknown together.

Dream-like. That's the word. It bears infinite resemblance to that mystical phenomenon between waking hours: how movements feel so sluggish, as if the local reality were resisting; how things seem to shift in lapses of perception; how the very world seems to recolour and reshape itself in a mimicry of will - shapes in the grey, some far too familiar. What isn't dream-like is the perspective: for a dreamer, even the strangest and most confounding circumstances simply make sense; but to Cyran and Cirice, it is clear how very unusual this all is.

Lucid. That's the word.

...

Whose thoughts are these, coalescing in the grey? Whose memories, returning in forms so surreal? Whose dreams? Whose nightmares? Are Cirice and Cyran the only dreamers here?

No. There's something else. In the distance, like a black sun on a lightless horizon; there is something invisible, but felt. It is an unmistakable presence, and the realm knows it as well as any dreamer. The shapes there are not so disparate. They move together, as one, under one influence.

There is a sound like... pen on paper. Writing. And a muttering, faint but aggrieved. It sounds familiar. Is it getting closer? No - they're getting closer to it. If they followed it, they might find its source.

But should they even consider such a thing? Perhaps some illusions are better left as they are.

Feeling infinitely better with Cyran there with her all Cirice felt now was curiosity. The unfamiliar was only as scary as the company you delve it with, locking arms with Cyran was better than any safety net. He gave her the strength and confidence to march forward without fear into this strange amorphous world and keep walking. Alone she might not be ready for things, but together they could handle so much more. They had, they would again.

“Okay let’s keep going.” She said, looking all around them as if she could catch the movement with her eyes and make it make sense. Then she hears it, a strange but familiar sound. Or perhaps feels it more than hears it. Senses aren’t to be trusted in a place like this.

“Do you hear that? It’s like… Writing? Let’s go find it! I think we’re getting close! Maybe we can figure out what’s going on!” Cirice speeds their pace with excited bounds, completely won over by curiosity.

There was an intruder in the dusk.

Perhaps it was more accurate to call Cyran and Cirice the intruders. Wherever they were, Cyran felt at ease here, frighteningly so - he felt like he would dissolve if he stood still for long enough, granules of sugar mixed into a cup of coffee. But as the two kept pressing forward, no goal in sight save the innate instinct to move, it became entirely obvious that there was another presence lingering in the air with them.

But who?

For once, Cyran did not entirely know what was concealed in the shadows, and that frustrated him. How long had it been since he’d not simply been able to reach out, and receive in turn? He strained his senses so hard that the space between his skull and his eyes began to ache from the effort, but all he was able to make out was the distant signs of irritation, mutterings too quiet for him to understand but seemed to exist everywhere and nowhere at all. There was endless distance between them, but Cyran heard everything with a muffled clarity like the irritated nothings had been whispered straight into his ear.

Cyran frowned, thoughtful.

It didn’t matter if they couldn’t trust what might lie on the other side. “There is nowhere for us to go but forward.” Cyran agreed, dragged along by Cirice’s quick pace and her grip on his arm, closer to the source of the sound, the disruption of monotony. If he concentrated, he could almost here the whispers tugging at the back of his mind the further they strayed from the waking world and deeper into the sandman’s domain.

Oh, little Shade, some secrets are best left uncovered.

There is no such thing as distance, in this place. There is no 'there' or 'here,' only closer and farther. And this closeness is measured not in steps or yards, but in clarity. They're drawing nearer; they can tell by how the shadows begin to close around them, forming shapes that cannot be wished away. They endeavour to become something more solid, dutiful servants of the dreamer's unspoken will. Or are they tormentors, wardens of the nightmare? That, yet, is not so clear. But that mumbling, with every passing whim, becomes more eligible. And, as it does, so too does it become more familiar.

"...-na dartan..." It's a frustrated whisper - a complaint, but in another tongue.

The shapes are growing nearer. Little by little, black becomes more prominent than grey. That horizon, once a ubiquitous truth, is becoming little more than a light in the crack of a doorway. The arcing shades slowly contort into more pragmatic shapes that blot out the sky: walls, a ceiling, a floor, and the corners that adjoin them.

"Kahnan git..."

They're crossing over, now. They can feel it. That scratching is so loud that it blots out near all else, and the grey is disappearing into nebulous dream. The darkness is choking. But there's something else... heat? It's rising...

...

The confusion begins to meld away. Welcome disparity soaks into the shadows like paint onto a canvas: colours and shapes, sound and silence, darkness and light. Like a lie, the disparate falsehoods blend together, into something that resembles a truth. The heat is strong, but not unbearable. There's a dull, but oppressive orange glow that shines through the gaps in a curtained window. They're in a small room: behind them is a closed door; shelves line the wall, some lined with books whilst others are empty; a simple carpet covers the floor; there are lanterns on tabletops, but none lit; and that scratching of pen against paper is the only sound. In front of them is an uncomplicated, oaken desk, at the other side of which is seated a familiar little woman on a high-seated chair. Her head is down, and she's writing away at a piece of paper on the desk before her. At either side of the desk is a stack of paperwork, each monumental in its own right. But to her own side is a strange device, atop a stand. At one side of the device, facing her, is a circular plate whose circumference is lined with circular holes; at the other side, a simple hand-crank.

But Veliky's focus is entirely on her work, whatever it may be. The light from the window casts her in a menacing glare. Her eyes cannot be seen from behind the visor of her hat.

"Ugh, mo vida-ekk..." Her focus is unshaken, but there is a strange bitterness within it, as if something is of great annoyance to her.

At first, it seems they've gone unnoticed. But then, as if she'd always known, Veliky makes a frustrated gesture toward them. "Come on, sit. I don't have all night."

There are two other chairs, on this side of the desk, that almost certainly weren't there just a moment ago. And was that clock on the wall always ticking? It seems to urge them further, even as the scribbling persists as white noise. Her tone is not a welcoming one - but, then, it never is.