Ærosylle was about to reply to Mellonin's question when a newcomer came to the Inn. She seemed to be a minstrel of sorts and sang a song of dreams. Dreams are sweeter than our world when they are pleasant. But what if the dream was bad? Then the dreamer couldn't find peace and would not loathe the hour of dawn. Ærosylle shuddered. The bad dreams had a tendancy to haunt one's memory as well; good dreams fled all too swiftly.
Ærosylle tapped the table with her pen as she saw the various welcome the poet -- singer. Leaning down, she took another piece of deformed paper and smoothed it on the table. Looking closely at the girl, she began to draw her in the midst of a mighty forest. It was a dark forest -- a forest full of dreams. Bright dreams in the form of elves and dark dreams in the guise of goblins.
The orcs crouched in the underbrush, peered around the tree trunks, and some of the smaller ones dangled from the branches. The elves sang in the tree tops, plucked their harps, and some danced around the singer.
Ærosylle dropped her pen, and scrutinized it. She blew on it softly, drying the ink so it wouldn't smudge if a wayward hand happened to touch it. Rising, she crept towards the singer and murmured, "This is for you."
She stepped back quickly and looked for Mellonin. But she had left with the red haired man and some others. Ærosylle saw them stride down the path and waved at them through the window.
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