Clink.

Clink.

Clink.

The soft ringing of bells reverberate in the empty earth as The Dream-Peddler walks, drowning in silence. Her bare feet sink into the wet soil, the blades of grass brushing against her ankles almost reverently.

She inhales, taking in the fragrance that floats in the air. The scent is sweet, much too sweet, reminding her of the kind of sickly sweet candy given to capricious children. It gives her some pause.

Underneath her, the grass takes notice and asks in a small voice, “Are you...alright?”

“Hello,” The Dream-Peddler greets before tucking herself into a kneel. She’s not quite at eye-level with the grass, but it doesn’t seem to mind and simply curls itself backward to take a good look at her. “Can you tell me your name?”

“I...can’t remember,” It answers slowly, struggling with it's thoughts as it bends down in dejection. “All I know is that...I’m waiting...for someone, but she hasn’t...come back yet.”

“That’s alright,” She murmurs, running a delicate finger down one of the grasses’ stalk. It shivers under her attention. “If you’d be so kind, I’d love to hear about this person you’re waiting for.”

The grass quivers, suddenly shying away from her touch. “I...I don’t really know. It’s not my...story to tell. You...should ask the tree.”

Around her, the patches of grass fold into an awkward angle as it points at a dot in the horizon.

Clink. Clink. Clink. The Dream-Peddler nods in gratitude before withdrawing herself to her full height. In the distance, she sees a lone tree with leaves the shade of the deep sea. She gets closer, taking in the details as the gap between her and the tree lessens until she is no more than an arm’s length away.

The tree rises from the pale grass on a sturdy trunk, it’s wide branches twisting and coiling in thick clumps as if in reach for the sky. From behind its leaves, the last few rays of sunshine filter through, casting a shadow underneath a sliver of a human.

It raises its head to meet her gaze, offering no words. The sliver’s face is indistinguishable; it is nothing more than a white scribble against the backdrop of the setting sun. But it opens it’s maw–dark and black with far too many teeth that glisten with blood–and bares out, “You will not take my master.”

“I assure you, I am not here to take anyone’s master.” The Dream-Peddler says. “I am but a humble Dream-Peddler,” She continues quietly and takes a step forward, crossing an invisible boundary known only to those who trade in dreams.

"Perhaps, I could be of service." 

"No." The sliver twists its mouth in derision; it has no patience for clever half-truths or wit that slips from the peddler's lips. 

It rises to its haunches. “You reek of lies.” 

The air stills. 

“My master hates liars.”

The Dream-Peddler parts her mouth as if she's about to speak. But before the words can even escape her throat, the sliver lunges at her, forcing her to her back. It snarls and spits at her face, frustration and resentment dripping from its jaws in wet, fat globs.

A loud, ungodly wail rips through the air, filling her ears with words of a dead language.

I need to protect her.

Why? Why did you abandon me?

I waited for you so long.

She hears the sound of a lifeless name being carried through the wind.

Please don’t leave me.

And then—

Clink.

Clink.

Clink.

The Dream-Peddler rouses from her sleep.