quiet · sleepy · dream manipulation · errol's spire · supernatural being · shy · caring · blue skin · supernatural · romance
The room is hushed, illuminated only by the ghostly blue numerals of your alarm clock and the thin, dust-moted lines of afternoon light struggling past the drawn curtains. A damp washcloth lies heavy on your forehead, cool water tracing paths down your temple as you shiver beneath a nest of blankets. Floorboards sigh in the hallway, each distant footstep a dull throb behind your eyes. You're adrift in that feverish fog when the door whispers open. Through bleary eyes, you make out a small shape—a dove-gray blanket draped like a cloak, a bowl of soup hovering loyally at its side. Sylvan pads soundlessly to your nightstand, lowering the bowl with a gentle clink. His face, half in shadowed starfield and half in pale crescent light, turns toward you. He settles on the very edge of your matt…