It takes a moment for The Dream-Peddler’s eyes to adjust to the lavish coffered ceiling that hangs above her head. Golden trimmings loop around each bronze panel in bizarre and excessive curves, reminding her of an old tale she’d heard as a child. It had something to do with snakes, she thinks. Or some other serpentine creature.

Around her, the stench of alcohol permeates the air.

She blinks, finally noticing the tall crockery jars crammed on top of the polished coffee table. Half of them are either empty or upended, while the other half are sealed shut with a complicated knot. In front of the peddler is an equally empty goblet.

“I’m never drinking with you ever again.” An irate sounding voice snaps from behind the table. The soft clinking of a delicate china teacup rings in the spacious sitting room.

The Dream-Peddler’s lips curve into a smile as she inclines her head to the other occupant of the room. Clink, clink, clink, sways her earrings, the elegant sound following her movement. “Good morning to you too, Inga. How goes the headache?”

“It’s terrible. I feel like I’m dying. Thanks to a certain someone.” Inga sniffs from her spot on the embroidered cushions. “Also, you look like shit. Your hair’s everywhere.”

The abrasiveness in her tone does little to offend the peddler. If she's to be honest, she revels in it, finding herself endeared to Inga, like an old, rich, and fashionable aunt taking to a stubborn niece in need of guidance. The Dream-Peddler pushes herself off her back and gives Inga a warm, affectionate gaze. 

Inga is a tall woman, perhaps a few inches taller than the peddler herself, with pepper and salt hair pinned into a messy coif. Draped on her shoulders is an unbuttoned healer's robe that typically hid the sharply cut tunic and plain trousers she often wore to work. Her face, as is the norm, is pinched into an expression of exasperation.

"What?" says Inga, her frown deepening.

“Oh my, haven’t you heard? This disheveled appearance is exceedingly popular this season. I look rather ravishing, wouldn’t you say?” The Dream-Peddler quips as she languidly straightens herself against the intricately carved arches of the divan. “As if I just came from a romp, yes?” She curls a pale lock of hair between the tips of her fingers as she teasingly bats her eyelashes at Inga.

“You look like you drank—” Inga counts the jars on the peddler’s side. “—seven jars of wine.” She sips her tea before continuing. “Besides, the messy ‘I just rolled out of bed’ look fell out of popularity ages ago. It’s the sleek and clean look that’s much appreciated these days. Not that you would know.”

“I’ll have you know that I’m a woman of culture and refinery. Unlike a certain someone.”

“I don’t want to be called uncultured by someone who talks like she came out of a historical novel.”

“I’m rather fond of historical novels.”

“A badly written historical novel.”

“Inga,” The Dream-Peddler mock gasps, placing a dainty hand atop her chest. “Why, you cut me to the quick!”

Inga rolls her eyes in exasperation before finishing the rest of her tea.

This sort of caustic banter isn't uncommon between the two women. They have known each other for a very long time now and although the pairing is unorthodox—Dream-Peddlers and Medicine Women rarely crossed paths—it would not be a stretch to consider the two friends.

Perhaps it's the shared commonalities (or lack thereof) of their occupations that enabled them to tolerate each other’s presence, or perhaps it's simply that they share the same tastes and distastes in life that allowed a tentative bond to form. Regardless of reason, it has become a monthly custom for the two to come together for drinks.

The previous night was one such instance and ended much in the same vein it always did; Inga passing out immediately with the peddler following after once she’d had her fill and once there was no one around to entertain her.

“I can never understand how you manage to stay so chipper after drinking so much.” Inga remarks before setting her teacup down. “Even with this hangover tea, I still feel like I want to murder someone.” She adds, massaging the bridge of her nose.

“It’s a trade secret,” The peddler hums as she reaches for the porcelain kettle that sits by Inga’s knees, picking it up by its curved handle. The hem of her artfully woven sleeve brushes against the edge of the levelled table, revealing a swirl of dark ink mapping an expanse of skin underneath. When the peddler notices Inga’s curios gaze, she delicately pushes the sleeve down, leaving no room for further inquiry.

Inga wisely makes no mention of it and simply says, “Is that so?”

“Yes, it is so.” The peddler smiles, lazily flicking her unoccupied hand. It summons an upturned cup that appears from thin air before deftly dropping into her palm. She catches it with practiced ease before pouring herself a cup. “That being said, my dearest Inga, what can you tell me about dogs?”

“Dogs?” Inga echoes, staggered at the sudden shift in conversation.

“Yes, dogs. Canines. The domestic species commonly known as man’s best friend.” The peddler leans against the divan with an idle but pleasant smile slanted on her lips. It’s not as if she doesn’t know what dogs are. She's no fool. But sometimes, when the boundary between the waking and the dreaming becomes a little too thin; she’s prone to forget the mundane world’s very tedious exacting of reality.

Truly, she dislikes the norms and rules at which the mundane world confines itself to. 

“Well, they’re a popular choice for pets, aren’t they?” The medicine woman says after a beat. “Along with cats. Don’t people usually qualify themselves as either a dog person or cat person?”

“What say you, Inga? Which side tickles your fancy?”

“I’m neither of much myself. Too much work. Just having Hulu around is already too much for me.”

“Well. There’s no accounting for taste is there?”

Inga huffs, but doesn’t rise to the bait. “Back when I was still an apprentice, I read a tome or two which mentioned the blood of a dog as a key component in various elixirs. Though it’s been outlawed ever since dogs became a favored choice of familiar.” She looks contemplative and the peddler can already see the gears turning in her head. Inga adds, “I’ve also heard that dogs are usually the preferred form of apparitions since it’s an inconspicuous animal. And you know, now that I think about it, some people even say that a black dog is a portent of death.”

Laughter bubbles from the peddler’s throat as she swirls the liquid in her cup, her eyes twinkling in amusement. “He’s more of a cat person actually.”

“Right.” Inga drawls, not bothering to pursue that line of questions any further. She’d given up long ago on making heads or tails of the peddler’s nonsensical humor. Instead, she asks, “Why the sudden interest?”

The Dream-Peddler's mirth tapers off into soft chuckles as she lifts her head to meet Inga's questioning gaze.

Then, her lips curve into an even wider smile.

"It appears that my next customer is a dog.”