en garde!

"Pentagram City still stands..." Callistemon began but she looked hesitant. But her magic sparked to life again, as if warning.

"You can't keep running forever..." Alastor reminded her. "Whilst I have no desire to go frocklicking about the Pentagram myself, you teo could go and try see if any of Francois' little friends are still around...And you did promise to help him however you can."

"Well fuck," Callistemon swore. but her hesitance gave way to steely resolve. She at Francois. "I can make a portal that'll take us directly to the city, or if you'd prefer to take the long way around, we can stop by my settlement, Ramshack, and then take the road from there to Pentagram City."

"I highly suggest the poral!" Alastor chirps. "That way the two of you could avoid the dreadful weather and Calli here can-"

"Don't Alastor, please?" Callistemon asked.

"You're the one refusing to acknowledge what happened," Alastor stated calmly. "I've been more than patient these last few months, but I grow weary of your stubbornness."

Alastor, with all the calm of a cat eyeing its prey, elaborated. "Callistemon got into quite the scrap with another overlord last time she was in the city, it was very entertaining to watch...but I find myself curious over the details as to what on earth that foolish little picture box could have done to cause such a violent reaction..."

Francois’s gaze snapped back to Callistemon the moment the expletive left her mouth–women swore now? The absurdity helped to lighten his mood just a bit.

“That's fantastic news–” He paused as the pair started back and forth again, this time to a much less banter-y tone. “A, er, scrap you say? As in a battle with another overlord? So for her to return would be to possibly start a new battle, perchance?”

That would explain Callistemon’s reaction to the concept and especially to Alastor’s suggestion. She was clearly uncomfortable with the whole thing and it would be ungentlemanly for him to push her into it, but. . .

“If I may propose a compromise?” One hand rose to just about his own shoulder level as he spoke. “I understand that the constraints of our current agreement may interfere, however ah. . . I would be willing to go alone, if Madame Callistemon cannot set foot in Pentagram City herself. I just. . . I must find him.”

His previous attempt at a smile faded again, replaced with a determined stare.

“And I will do whatever it takes to accomplish this.”

Alastor grinned widely, absolutely thrilled by the question.

"Why it's the year 2020!" he gleefully informed Francois. "It's been getting quite crowded down here, even with the-"

"Alastor, I think he's got enough of his plate for now," Callistemon carefully pointed out. "We can fill him in on... current events when he's ready."

She watched the plant-like sinner carefully, sympathy in her eyes as she elaborated. "Things are very different compared to where, and when, you last were. Like I said before, you cooperate and I'll help you however I can., you have my word."

He was silent for a long minute, eyes darting from the concerned Callistemon to an amused Alastor and back again. Maybe this was a trick? After all, they were out in a field somewhere in Pride with zero indication that any of what the pair had told him was true. But Callistemon had been very clear, she doesn’t lie. Can’t lie, even.

“You asked what I last remembered,” he began, voice low and words far slower than before. “Perhaps I ought to be more specific. It was late August, 1910. We were in the last stages of a plan to overthrow her. All we needed was more firepower, and we were nearly. . . nearly. . .”

His voice faded away again as he looked back at Alastor.

“You said before, her closest all vanished as well? So it was technically a success, but without one of us to fill that power void immediately, it would have led to chaos when her rivals realized she was missing. Briervale would’ve been torn asunder.”

His fingers laced together on the table before him as he let out a slow exhale.

“Does Pentagram City still exist? We had a plan to regroup there if things went awry. I know it's a long shot, but. . .” His lips curled into a shaky little smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. “. . . I just need to know if someone dear to me made it out okay.”

"So you'll need more meat in your diet and avoid an abundance of vegetation, good to know," Callistemon noted and set down her sppon. She looked thoughtful. "And you're unfamilair with the term creature feature too..."

She was focused, deep in thought as pieces clicked into place. "I had my suspicions but that just seals it, you really are from an earlier point in history."

"Creature Feature is a term that has existed in Hell for decades, first coined in the 1920's," Alastor unhelpfully added. "It made its way into popular vernacular thanks to yours truly during the late 1930's... It is a playful, casual way to refer to the cycles that afflict sinners who have animal-like traits every sixty-six days or so..."

((OOC: Alastor is referring to sometihng mentioned in a lore post I did a while back, and this is your warning that the discussion could turn towards talk of NSFW topics, viewer discretion is advised.)

“Ah I suppose something like that. I can still eat what I like for the most part so it’s no trouble really. More of a. . . ah, a preference now I suppose? Hm. . .”

His eyes lit up as Alastor explained the details of the cycle he was all too familiar with.

“Oh, oh yes I’m very well acquainted with. . .”

It was about then that bits of their previous conversation, specifically the part that didn’t immediately trigger his fight-or-flight response, wafted back to him.

“Wait, Sir Alastor, you said Her Majesty vanished twenty years before your arrival in Hell? And you’re clearly very established, and the 1930s. . .” His clawed fingertips drummed against the sides of his bowl while things slowly clicked into place, gaze trained on his own finished meal as his grin became more strained. “A-ah. Yes. This is. . . all wrong, h-haha~!”

His eyes flicked back up, bouncing between both overlords.

“I dread the answer, but. . . what year is it now?”

"Yup, we covered where you're from. I need to know the last thing you remember doing, and anything we need to take into account for your stay with us. Like if creature feature applies to you or any dietary needs you have..." Callistemon rattled off and began to eat. She let out a happy hum at the taste. "This is good."

"Of course it's good, I made it," Alastor looked satisfied at the commentary on his culinary skills. "Glad to see you're both of good taste when it comes to food. Not many appreciate home-cooked meals these days..."

Callistemon made a noise in agreement.

“The last thing I remember doing. . .?” His lips pursed in thought again. “Ah, well, I was finishing a cigar on the balcony of the workshop, and. . .”

His brows drew together for a moment. He was missing something, wasn’t he? But what? Think, man, think. . .

“But, ah. . . I’m afraid I’m not familiar with the term creature feature, but I do favor a more er. . . carnivorous diet down here, if that helps any? I believe whatever transformative magic is at work in this terrible afterlife has a sense of humor, as it’s really stressed the lion part of dandelion, haha~!”

His laugh turned into a cheeky little grin as he added, “I suppose it’s better than anything to do with pissenlit, however.” He cleared his throat immediately after the comment, though the amusement at his own little quip was still clear on his face. “Ah, please excuse the vulgarity, Madame Callistemon.”

Alastor snickered at the mention of Callistemon being honourable.

"The weather is going to be nasty," Callistemon replied and ignores Alastor. "Shade Storms are when magic from the Dreamscape leaks out into the waking world, and shades accompany them...nasty buggers they are."

She returns to her seat and points to the empty bowl left in the middle of the table. "Help yourself to some food, we've got a barrier up, or at least I'm assuming there's one here."

She shoots Alastor a questioning look.

Alastor rolled his eyes. "Yes dear, I put up a shield whilst you were away. I have no desire to deal with shades..."

"Thank you," she said gratefully and Alastor gestured for her to eat.

"You can get him settled in after lunch. I made this for you after all." he reminded her. "Now both of you, hush and eat before the food gets cold."

“How curious, so it really is all linked. I wonder, is that the origin of that lovely scream rain phenomenon we have here as well?”

His eyes widened at the offer of food. On one hand there was always a possibility that it was some sort of trick, such as the myth of the persimmon in Hades, but on the other it did smell rather nice, and Callistemon did say he was under her protection as long as he cooperated, sooo. . .

He ambled back toward the table, having been a fair distance away during their tense little chat, and helped himself as directed.

“Ah, is this venison~?” As soon as the words left his mouth, he noticed the remains beside the cooking area. “--Ah, so it is! Nothing like fresh game, is there? Splendid!”

While he wasn’t out of the woods yet–both of the pair were clearly not to be trifled with–he couldn’t help but wonder about their relationship. Callistemon had called Alastor her companion, but the man was here cooking her lunch and their back-and-forth suggested something closer than companion. More intimate. Huh. . .

Probably not the best idea to immediately pry, but he couldn't help but be just a tad curious.

“Ah, so Madame Callistemon, I believe the other half of our er. . . agreement was that I was to tell you all that I know?”

Alastor sighed dramatically.

"Hm, I suppose you have a point." he reluctantly agreed.

Alastor snapped his fingers, a spark of green and black flew of his hand and vanished in an anticlimactic puff of smoke.

"Well, it’s your lucky day my fine fellow," Alastor said brightly. "You're a free man. For it appears I don't own your soul!"

The Radio Demon began to eat, quietly observing both Francois and Callistemon as the fox-like sinner got up from her seat and walked over to the gentlemen explorer.

"Look, Fracois," Callistemon began, her tone professional, calm even. "As much as I'd love to simply point you in the direction of the nearest settlement and let you live in peace...through no fault of your own you stumbled across a place I don't let people just visit."

"Now, I stand by my previous declaration of ensuring your safety...but I'm afraid that until I am absolutely certain you pose no risk, and no threat to my Aviary. You'll have to travel with me for the time being." she explained.

"Oh, how dull..." Alastor sighed, he appeared bored. "Trying to deescalate things instead of simply standing your ground as an overlord...pity, I was hoping for a bit fun."

"I have rules," Callistemon stated firmly and kept her gaze squarely on Francois. "I promised him shelter from the storm and my protection for as long he travels with us."

"But it wasn't a deal," Alastor pointed out. "You are not obligated to protect him when he trespassed."

Silvery magic crackled around Callistemon's throat, and her next words were said with assuredness of an undisputed fact. "I do not lie."

"Ugh, you're no fun..." the Radio Demon pouted and turned his full attention to his meal.

“Oh?” He perked up at the word free. While the circumstances were a bit. . . dubious–he ate Her Majesty?--the petal-headed sinner wasn’t about to pry further. He hadn’t been free since his arrival. No more meaningless missions, no more torture, no more–

Ah of course. There was always a catch with overlords.

“I, ah. . . I see.”

His brows knit as he watched the pair banter. Not quite as free after all, at least for the time being. On the upside, he had nothing but time. Immortality was funny like that.

The sudden spark of energy snapped him out of his internal monologue.

“Madame Callistemon is an honorable overlord.” His grin returned, and was genuine this time. While he wasn’t entirely sure of what had happened it was clear that she was bound by some force, be it magic or her own will, to honor her own word even if he hadn’t agreed to a proper contract. How terribly interesting. “Well now, traveling together doesn’t seem like that bad of an exchange. I am an explorer, after all, and ah. . .” He gestured to their current surroundings, namely the seething stormclouds that had definitely gotten closer during their chat. “. . . Also that looks a bit frightful, doesn’t it?”

"Hm... Alastor, you said haven't heard the name in a while," Callistemon said, expression focused. "What did you mean?"

Alastor looked downright cheerful as he explained. "Well, my dear, the woman is out of the picture and has been for quite some time," with a snap of his fingers, a set of soup bowls and matching cpoons manifested on the patio table, and the Radio Demon continued to explain as he began to serve up the stew. "She and all her closest suddenly vanished some twenty years before I arrived! It was such a mystery i decided to go looking for her."

"And did you find out what happened?" Callistemon asked as Alastor placed a bowl of stew in front of her.

"The foolish woman had a knack for collecting rare artefacts and magical items. Whatever shint trinket caught her eye at the time," Alastor stated as he served up a bowl of venison stew for himself and took his seat across from the fox-like sinner. "Got herself and her lackeys sucked into a cursed artefact...She was quite startled when I released her and scattered her servants across the rest of Hell."

"...And yet she's not around anymore..." Callistemon stated.

Alastor chuckled. "There was no point leaving her in that little cage where anyone could just open it. She was one of my targets back in the day...Oh her screams are simply a delight to listen to, and she was quite tasty too!"

Callistemon clearly ignored Alastor's casual cannibalism and gestured at Francois. "So, who owns his soul if Her Majesty is out of the picture?"

"I have no idea!" Alastor chirped. "All of her contracts should have transferred to me once I defeated her....but I don't really pay much attention to whose souls I own, outside the ones I feature on my broadcasts, or a few useful servants...Its possible I own his soul and just never knew."

He looked over at Francois. "I take it you know how to summon your soul contract. If by chance I own your soul, we can work out a deal, and if by some miracle, you're a free sinner... I hope you've learned to never make the mistake of selling your soul to someone else."

"I'll take him," Callistemon offered. "If you own his soul that is...I'm not just gonna let him wander off since he's seen the Aviary."

Alastor looked at her playfully. "What, are you worried he might find some way back in and take all your little birdies?"

"Among other things," she stated seriously. "He's a Cryptid like us, that means he'll have some sensitivity to Hell's magic. He's a walking security risk the moment he showed up there."

"Dear, you have nothing to worry about!" Alastor reassured her. "Even if he could get back into your little hideaway, the shades would drive him insane within a day...And there's also your Wardens wandering about in there too. You worry too much!"

Callistemon looked like she wanted to argue but thought better of it given that there was an audience.

Francois's expression shifted through Alastor's exposition, going from mild confusion to amusement to quiet horror as the pair went from mocking his overlord to owning his soul. No no, not again.

At least he had confirmation that the crimson haired man was, in fact, an overlord.

He felt himself slowly ease back on one foot, aiming to angle himself away from them without alerting either to his alarm, but alas his tail made it difficult to mask his growing anxiety over the situation. They were in Pride at this point so there was a slim chance he could just nip on back to civilization somewhere, right? Normally he was all for a good tussle, but two overlords, even if they were somehow lower tier–doubtful seeing as Callistemon had her own realm–would still be pushing his luck.

Fortunately for him, they were still very much engaged in their conversation.

Cryptid? Magical sensitivity? What kind of. . .

Ah, the affairs of overlords.

"If I may be so bold to ask, Mister Alastor, if you were the one who owns my soul, wouldn't you be the one who could summon a transferred contract?" Being addressed directly put him in a precarious situation and by god was he aware of it, but he tried to smile his way through. “My apologies for being so terribly misinformed. You see, Her Majesty was in full control of all of us in ah. . . many ways, are you likely know.”

"You haven't heard of me?" Alastor asked. "Why I'm Alastor, the Radio Demon! Surely, you've heard of me from my radio show!" Despite the pleasant greeting, there is a crackle of radio static in the air as he took note of where Francois was from. He looked over at Francois curiously. "Did you say Her Majesty? Why I haven't heard that name in ages!"

"Who is she?" Callistemon asked. "I don't recognize the name."

Francois's brow furrowed at the man's introduction, head tilted to one side.

"Radio show. . .?" There was an incredulous tone to the question as the grin on his face melted into a perplexed pucker. Another title implied that this man was of great importance as well. Another overlord perhaps? It would explain the unease he felt. "Just how would one have a show using a radiotelegraph? Terribly useful technology, don't misunderstand, however I'd hardly call it a. . ."

And then his overlord's name came up again. Ah, he really ought to have known better than to mention her.

"Aha, yes yes. The. . . Lady. . . is the current holder of my essence I'm afraid." His arms crossed in front of himself as he spoke, one thumb toying with a brace strap. "But wait, ages you say? And Madame Callistemon, you have never engaged with her? How curious. She's certainly not the shy type, and your ah. . . Dream Realm is something she will surely try to obtain for herself once she hears about it."

"Welcome to camp, Francois," Callistemon said as she exited the portal. "It's not much, but it's home."

The camp was indeed simple, out in the middle of grassy field. A red couch somehow placed with an old, yet sturdy, wooden gazebo. A cooking station that was nothing than a cauldron over a fire and flat rock to use as countertop off to the right. And a bit south of that was a metal patio table and set of matching chairs.

Black and white birds, with glowing green eyes, and small fangs jutting out from their beaks pecked and foraged around the campsite with little care towards the sinners present. Their flute-like calls filled the air with a sense of nostalgic calm.

"And just who is this fellow?" Alastor asked from where he was watching them, keeping a close eye on the stew. "Did one of your little pets beg to be released from their cage due to the abysmal weather?"

Callistemon walked over to the patio table and took a seat in one of the chairs. "No, he's not one of mine. He somehow ended in the Dreamscape. Found him in my Aviary and he's agreed to cooperate in exchange for lending him a helping hand," she glanced between Francios and Alastor thoughtfully. "Alastor, do you know him?"

"Hm..." Alastor observed the newcomer. "Can't say I do dear, I stopped paying attention to the new arrivals decades ago!"

"I don't think he's new to Hell," Callistemon points out. "He knows what an Overlord is, knew not to directly make a deal with one too."

Alastor's eyes gain a spark of curiosity. "Well now that is interesting! I can see why you brought him here, then..." He addresses Francois directly, his gaze focused, eager. "Now whereabouts in this fiery pit are you from? Do tell!"

To be sure, Francois wasn't exactly a stranger to minimalistic camping situations--he'd had his share of sleeping rough both in life and death--but the idea of having things be this open in Hell of all places was certainly a choice. Perhaps that was just another perk of being an overlord?

His head bobbed toward the new voice, and an odd little shiver worked its way up his spine. The lanky, apron-clad man hovering near the cauldron was unassuming, but there was a certain aura about him that made the sparse hairs on Francois's forearms stand on end.

So that was the type of "company" a Folktale Demon kept. Right then.

Warning signs be damned, he found himself following the lady's lead, though he wasn't quite comfortable enough to help himself to a seat just yet.

"Aha, salutations, my good man," he began, grinning right back at him, hands on his hips. "Madame Callistemon is correct in her belief! I've been here for decades, hah~!"

Despite his open posture, the tip of his lowered tail twitched with every other syllable. One hand rose to tap a finger against his own lips as he thought for a moment.

"Hmm... I believe it's exactly forty years as of this past spring, in fact. Incredible how time flies when you have all of eternity! I hail from Her Majesty's territory of Briervale. Lovely name, terrible location, hah~

"Oh, but do excuse my lack of manners!" He'd already heard the other's name, Alastor, but it was common courtesy to introduce oneself. "My name is Francois-Xavier Rene Pierre Beauregard the Third, Gentleman Explorer! And how may I address you, mister...~?"

Callistemon barked out a laugh, this one was clever. She matched his grin with one that was reassuring. "Don't you worry, my deals are always fair, but I'll explain everything when we're back at camp."

She paused as she moved up to stand beside him, looking up at the taller sinner. "Mind you manners around myself and my companion and you'll be fine."

She gestures for him to step through. "After you."

Teleportation was his least favorite mode of transportation by far, and he'd even given riding inside a Hell whale a go once.

Only once, never again.

At very least this time he could brace himself for the inevitable nausea that went along with having one's physical form pulled through the fabric of spa--

Oh. Oh, he was already out, and all he had was the slightest twinge of a headache. Perhaps the sickness was just a Her Majesty thing. That wouldn't be too terribly surprising to learn. Just another fun little quirk.

The mention of a companion had him just a touch concerned again. What kind of company did an overlord--one with a title and personal realm, even--keep?

He was immediately distracted from the thought by the smell of cooking game. She had said he would be returning to her camp, after all, and she certainly had meant it.

"Ah, suffice it to say we're back in Pride proper, Madame Callistemon?" It was more of a statement than a question, as despite the ominously greenish clouds he could still make out the characteristic rusty tinge of the realm he'd learned to call home.

"The Dreamscape is connected to Hell," she explains and notes his reaction to her title. So not a new arrival as she had first assumed. "This place is connected to every sinner and hellborn that exists and trust me, there's no way to leave Hell completely, I've tried."

She glances up at the storm clouds, as much as she wanted to qiestion him further time was of the essence. "Best not to linger, there's a shade storm headed our way. I can take you to my camp back in the Pride Ring and give you shelter for the time being."

She has no idea how much he knows about the dangers of the wild magic of Hell and the strange weather it creates. But he was here in her domain, and thus her responsibility.

With a wave of her hand, she opens a swirling black portal that leads back to camp. "This leads to my campsite, I will ensure your safety so long as you remain within my care in exchange for your cooperation and honesty about how you ended up here, does that sound fair to you?"

"I. . . I see." It was a bit much to digest, but honestly a bizarre middle realm connecting all sentient life in Hell somehow made sense? As much sense as anything did in the afterlife, at least. As someone who was somehow a walking, talking flower, he'd learned that it was best to just accept things rather than ponder them too deeply lest you risk an existential crisis.

"--A what now?" Oh, never mind, she was already several steps ahead of him. Whatever a shade storm was, clearly it was an issue if an overlord was concerned about it. A rumble from above caught his attention. Storm. Right. Fair enough.

"Ah, it's a de--" He cut himself off with an inhale, eyes widened for just a moment before he flashed the Folktale Demon a toothy grin as he approached the portal. That was close. "That is to say, I will tell you all I am aware of, Madame."

"I am Madame Callistemon, the Vagabond Overlord and Folktale Demon," Callistemon replied and shook his hand. She kept her tone professional but there was a hint of annoyance. "And you, my wayward explorer, are in my domain."

She gestured to the dry Australian bushland around them. "This is my Aviary, an area within the realm of dreams that is under my control. You shouldn't be in here..."

It was dangerous for anyone other than herself to wander the Dreamscape, but more importantly, Callistemon couldn't risk letting him wander about her Aviary unsupervised.

The storms clouds rumbled in warning overhead. The shade storm was growing closer.

His brows and petals raised slightly the mention of overlord, and just like that he was a bit on edge. A smidge. The tip of his tail flicked as he straightened himself out again.

"My apologies once more, Madame Callistemon," he began, lacing his fingers in front of himself. "However I fear I haven't a clue how I've come to be here in the first place. I. . ." He paused, finally taking in what the lady before him had said. ". . . Dreams you say? Are we not in Hell anymore?"

"Oi, hands off my propery!"

Callistemon made herself known as the bird tried to make itself smaller and huddled into the farthest corner of its cage. She didn't recognize this sinner, nor did his actions convey any kind of familiarity with the Dreamscape.

She wondered if he was new to Hell, given that he was meddling with her things. He didn't have that underlying thrum of power present in other Overlords like herself either.

And with the shade storm growing ever closer, she decided it was best to err on the side fo caution.

"You lost mate?" she asked warily.

The sudden voice spooked him, his leaf-like tail flicking up and going stiff for a moment as he released the cage and swiveled to find the source. He was usually half decent at feeling someone in his vicinity, so how. . .?

"--Ah! My sincere apologies," he began, stooping into a bow, one hand on his chest. "I meant no harm to your lovely little pet here, just found its situation to be peculiar, you see."

He paused as he straightened out again, lips pursed and hands on his hips.

". . . And I suppose my own situation is a bit peculiar as well. I do believe I may in fact be lost."

And suddenly his manners caught up to him again.

"Oh, oh! How terribly rude of me! I haven't introduced myself!" He stooped again, this time with his hand extended toward the vulpine being before him. "My name is Francois-Xavier Rene Pierre Beauregard the Third, Gentleman Explorer! How may I address you, miss...?"

A Dandelion Out of Time

It was another day in Hell, the small camp Callistemon and Alastor used a base of operations noticeably lacking in shelter from the elements as a ghostly chill lingered in the air, and ominous dark green storm clouds loomed in the distance.

“Hey Al?” Callistemon called out as she appeared in a burst of black and white feathers. She looked serious as she opened a black swirling portal behind her. “We’ve got a shade storm headed our way. I’m going to secure the Aviary before it hits on both sides of the veil.”

Alastor turned to face her from where he was working over at the camp’s makeshift kitchen, tending to some sort of stew that was bubbling away in the large cauldron the two used to make their meals.

He was wearing a butcher’s apron covered in dried and faded bloodstains. His red coat was draped over the back of a metal patio chair by a matching table near where he was working. His shirt sleeves were rolled up past his elbows as he stirred the contents of the cauldron with a large metal ladle.

“Don’t take too long my dear!” he chirped. “Lunch is almost ready. I was in the mood for venison stew. I even avoided adding any people to it so we could share!”

Callistemon looked over at pot the stew, then over to the dead and carved up deer carcass laid out on the flat rock they used as a countertop next to the cookpot. She was completely unphased by the sight of the dead animal.

“Wait, you’re sharing?” Callistemon asked him in genuine surprise. “You never share food.”

Alastor lifted the ladle he was holding out of the pot to use it to point at her. “Most of what I eat isn’t something you’d partake in, I know you’re not interested in eating people, but I wanted to make something for you since you’ve been so accommodating these past two years.”

“Now run along and see to it that your little collection of souls doesn’t get terrorised by this storm,” Alastor instructed. “The sooner you’re done, the sooner we can eat.”

“I’ll be as fast as I can.” Callistemon replied with and stepped through the portal.

The veil was the barrier between the waking world and the realm of dreams known as the Dreamscape.

Magic from the Dreamscape would slip through it to afflict Hell with magical storms and supernatural weather phenomena in wild untamed areas few demons set foot in. It was just one of many dangers faced when travelling beyond the cities and settlements dotted around the Pride Ring.

Callistemon stepped into her small sanctuary within the bast realm of dreams. The Aviary was an island of dry bushland encapsulated within a silver cage and surrounded by the inky ocean of the Sea of Souls. Small shadowy birds of all shapes and sizes lived in small silvery-white cages that hung from the branches of the grey-barked trees.

Storm clouds like the ones that threatened the waking world rumbled overhead as the fox-like sinner assessed her domain.

Many of the birds that resided in her Aviary had glassy-eyed, peaceful looks. Trapped in the pleasant haze of an idyllic dream. Others cowered at the mere sight of her, awake and aware of where they were.

Callistemon paid the frightened souls no mind as she gathered her magic, sharpened her senses, and prepared to conjure up a barrier to keep the brunt of the storm from disturbing her sanctuary.

She paused as she sensed something was off about her little slice of the dreamscape. She could sense it, a presence that was unmarred by her magic, not tethered to her will.

Nor was it anything native to the realm of dreams.

A sinner whose soul did not belong to her was in her Aviary.

She finished creating the barrier to protect her land from the oncoming storm, invisible to the naked eye but more than strong enough to prevent any nightmare creatures or wayward bolts of magic from affecting her collection of souls.

With her possessions secure, and merely a thought, Callistemon teleported directly to this new arrival in her domain.

She was curious, who on earth could have found their way to the Dreamscape?

@dandeliondaggers

((OOC: A Shade Storm is one of the unique magical weather events in the AU, a magical storm that attracts Shades, little shadow creatures that feed off of the misery and negative emotions of sinners.))

So this was. . . different.

He’d spent the last forty-something years, nearly twice as long as he’d been alive, roaming the circles of the Pride Ring and honestly thought he’d seen it all by now. Somehow, however, he’d never been here. The concept, the novelty, had him immediately hooked and he wasted no time in having a look around. Clumps of spiky vegetation pulled at his sleeves as he passed between them, neck craned to look up up up at the abyss that made up the area’s sky, mouth slightly agape.

Fantastic!

Never mind that he’d very much been in a city barely a blink’s time prior, that was a concern for later.

So engrossed was he in taking it all in that he stumbled into one of the treebound cages, the bird within shrieking from the accidental assault and knocking Francois out of his stupor.

“Oh–oh no, there there! You’re alright!” he soothed, or attempted to anyway, both hands holding the cage still as he peered up at the flustered creature. “I say, why are you trapped in there when we’re clearly outside? Poor thing. . .” As he spoke, he wiggled an index finger between the bars, curious to see what it would do.