«I balanced all, brought all to mind, The years to come seemed waste of breath, A waste of breath the years behind, In balance with this life, this death».
✧ sideblog: puppygabriel ✧
the demiurge | a dream of the endless x reader fanfic [part 2]
[ao3] [part one]
summary: Desperate to save the dying stranger, you rush to the castle to find help. When you finally meet him again, you realise the dreams you’ve been having are far from normal.
word count: 2k
taglist: @khaleesihavilliard @violet-19999
a/n: there's this part in the comics where Dream doesn't have the energy to get to the castle and he's found half-dead and starving by cain and abel's house. could i skip over the possibility of making Dream implore for help in my fic? of course not. i blame neil gaiman for this.
thank you so much for reading, and enjoy! <3<br>
______
A ruffling sound is all that you hear when you manage to transport yourself back to the castle, and though the darkness still hasn’t unravelled to show you your whereabouts, you know with absolute certitude you’re there. In the palace. Most of all, you know she has been waiting for you. You can feel her presence and her enquiring, feline stare, and before you can open your mouth her voice chimes in the empty hall.
“Hello, dreamer. I believe our conversation was interrupted”.
Your head raises to look at her, but her purple silhouette is all you manage to see behind the dark fog that’s clouding your eyes. The action of transporting yourself to the castle has drained you, again. Pursing your lips, you try to clench yourself to your dream.
“No time”, you cut her, quickly walking towards her. “You must come with me. Please”.
The woman frowns, evidently bewildered by your words. Clearly, she hadn’t anticipated such a desperate request from you. “What seems to be the matter?”
“You were looking for someone”, you murmur, breathing heavily, fatigue and fog weighing on you, “You called for a sir”. Your affirmation makes her blink in recognition. “I think I found him. He needs help. Please”.
Only then do her eyes trail to your figure to notice the white grains of sand powdering your knees. But as her usual composure finally breaks to give place to frantic scattering, your mind fails you again and starts pulling you back to wake, once more, for the third time. Just this once, though, the woman leans comfortingly towards you, her hands stretching to catch you, accompanying you to the floor as your knees cede.
“You have helped us, dreamer”. Her voice is barely a whisper, a murmur of rediscovered force. “The Dreaming will be grateful”.
A blink, and she’s disappeared. Darkness, white dust floating. Then nothing.
You awake.
**
“Lucienne?”
“My lord”.
“There was –”
Silence.
“Someone. A mortal”.
“Yes, my lord”.
“They helped me”.
A pause.
“I must admit it wasn’t the first time they came here”.
“Every mortal has been to the Dreaming thousands of times. What do you wish to tell me?”
“Sir - I believe they created something. In the Dreaming”.
Merely a blink. A thousand words encapsulated in a gesture.
“Show me”.
**
The sandy particles forming the six, new, crooked steps tense under his fingers as he brushes his hand against the surface. They’re relieved, somehow. Obedient, even after all this time.
Lucienne was right. This is not a creation of his. And yet, it’s there – tangible and fixed. The mark of an unknown hand in the very heart of his reign.
He can see you as soon as his palm settles around the angle of the first step. Every dream, every nightmare of yours. Your latest ones, too – every detail of your promenades in the castle, your creation of the steps, and then, at last, his own, withered and pale face, seen through your dreaming eyes. Your name, blazing in his head like blue flames. Your face.
It’s you. He recognizes your traits to be the same he first saw upon returning to his kingdom. Curious. Fretful.
Kind.
And yet.
Your visage dissipates from his mind as soon as he raises his palm from the gritty surface. His digits lengthen and tense towards the rest of the staircase, his wrist flicking to signal rocks and debris to move. But as much as deferential as they’d seemed when they’d perceived his presence, the grains of sand composing the structure of the steps don’t seem to comply with his orders. Heavy and inert, they merely raise from the ground to float briefly in the air, then they fall, useless.
I’m weak, he realizes. Weaker than I’ve been in aeons. Without his ruby, he’s nothing short of a fool. His powers are useless, even in his own realm.
His gaze falls to the new steps you’ve created, again. This time, the sand they’re made of shimmers cheekily, almost unrespectful. Before his blatant powerlessness, even these infant’s tricks, nothing short of foolery, seem to tar and mock him.
It’s a strange mixture of fascination and wrath, the burning sensation that arises in his chest.
“Very well”. He rises, and Lucienne advances to stand silently at his side. “It’s time for me to talk to the Hecate”.
**
They say you cannot dream of faces you have never once encountered before. Any person you meet in your dreams, you have actually seen in real life, in pictures, or in videos. And still, you cannot phantom where you could ever have met someone with a face like his. Ethereal. Terrifying. Yet, somehow, nimbly human.
You’re sure you could never have met someone like him in your daily life. But neither your dreams could have conjured such a ghostly appearance, nor transformed to such extent the face of anyone you may have known before.
And then, at night, sometimes you feel like you’re being watched.
Was it truly a dream?
If not, what else? Are you going crazy?
For a few days, you abandon your lucid dream exercises, unsettled and ashamed. Your nights are dreamless and dark.
**
When you decide to return to the castle in your dreams, you do so cautiously.
Even before the darkness has dissipated, you’re wondering if you’re really meant to be there. If you shouldn’t just forget what you’ve seen to mind your simple, daily life. If you haven’t stepped into something alien and forbidden to you.
The fear leaves you as soon as you allow yourself to open your eyes.
It is not the common scenery of destruction and fleshless concrete remains that greets you. At his place, green and luscious vegetation grows where brittle deserts had been, deep blue waters flow in fountained rivers, and the warm light of a dawning sun illuminates cobbled streets and bridges. And there, dominating it all, the castle.
Perfect. Immaculate. Each pillar standing audaciously at his place, each windowpane tinted in a different hue. Unbroken. Unshattered. No dust, no debris. No sign of the destruction that once was.
“Hello”.
You turn. And there it is – him.
Though his body has maintained its former emaciation and its distinctive angularity, the black coat you’ve already seen him wearing now envelops a fuller, healthier figure, and the sickish pallor of his complexion has softened to fade to an ethereal alabaster tint. There’s no sign of the crookedness of his old posture, now regal and balanced, almost militant. His eyes, once bloodshot and gleamy in tiredness and pain, now rest inert on your figure, studying you.
“You’re alright”, you finally observe, comparing his appearance to the ghostly one you’d seen in the desert.
“You helped me”, he replies, plainly. A mere constatation, and yet you catch a glimpse of gratitude in his gentle eyes.
There’s a moment of silence. You expect him to say something, but he doesn’t. His eyes linger inexpressively on your figure, not a single thought or feeling seeping through their irises. And yet, his gaze pierces you as if he could see past your own skin.
“You’re not a normal dream, are you?”, you ask, at last, voicing your thoughts. You’re struggling to choose proper words, and your observation comes out like an ingenuous triviality. “You’re – real”.
There’s a sudden, unexpected shimmer in his eyes when you pronounce these words, and something in his expression shifts. Amusement, almost. Now, for the first time in minutes, you feel like he’s begun to look at you differently. A minuscule speck of confusion passes behind his lashes. Then it’s hidden away, just as soon as it had come.
“Lucienne was right”, he says, his head tilting slightly. “You really do not know where you are”.
You don’t reply, the pursing of your lips silently confirming his hypothesis. He seems as perplexed by you as you are by him. Perhaps he’d thought you were a threat to his realm. After all, the woman – Lucienne, you suppose – had said you weren’t supposed to… be doing whatever it was you’d done. Creating, you guess. But if your dark interlocutor had doubted your benevolence towards his kingdom or imagined you to be a threat, your incertitude and confusion clearly contribute to calming his preoccupations.
Still, you want answers. The longing for an explanation builds up energy in your chest, pushing you to talk, now that you can, now that wake isn’t carrying you away already. If he isn’t willing to disclose who he is just yet, then you’ll have to bargain for that information. “I dreamt of the palace once – but it felt different from a normal dream. Real. I thought my mind was just being creative. I wanted to see more. That’s why I returned”.
Your words spark interest in him. “How?”
“I learnt to lucid dream”.
“No”. The sudden shift in his tone almost startles you. Somehow, his eyes appear to have turned darker, his figure taller, looming over you. You wonder if you’re just imagining it – but then a gelid breeze descends the hill behind you to brush threateningly against your nape. The man’s chin rises slightly, an insignificant movement that makes the hairs stand up on the back of your neck. “Do not lie to me. Not even experienced lucid dreamers have ever managed to enter my palace uninvited”.
“But I did”, you insist, desperately trying to resist the urge to back away. A hollow tremor rouses under your soles. “Listen, I’m as confused as you are. But sometimes, I feel like this… like this place – like it was calling me. Like it brings me where I need to be. I don’t know how else I could have ended up in that desert, seconds before you”.
Something in what you say makes the breeze weaken and drop. For the first time since you saw him, the man blinks. The darkness in his eyes spirals back into somewhere unknown.
“I have frightened you”, he murmurs, his voice back to its usual silky, calm tone. “Forgive me”.
“You didn’t”, you reply, though you do not sound half credible. You peer into his now relaxed eyes, scanning something. “I feel like I know you”.
“We have met before”.
“How?”
The man takes a step towards you. This time, too, something in the landscape surrounding you shifts, but it does so unthreateningly. The remnants of the gelid breeze move to run through leaves and grass, making his long black coat billow behind him.
“That’s… scenic”. But your muttered observation doesn’t eject any reaction from him. Not really a talker, then.
“I am Dream of the Endless, King of Dreams and Nightmares”. It’s a sudden and unexpected introduction that catches you off guard. And though the castle had induced you to suspect a revelation of this kind, though you’d definitely imagined him to be a king of some sort, the pride that just slightly lifts the corner of his mouth when he’s finished pronouncing those words makes something in your stomach tumble. There’s nothing in his appearance that reminds you of the weak, sickish man you’d helped in the desert, and still – still, that same feeling of ethereality, that palpable and visible extraneity in the way he pronounces his own name reminds that of the sensation you first felt upon seeing him.
“Every living thing is connected to me and my realm. I move through your dreams each and every night”.
It was real, then – that feeling of being observed, somehow, the one you’d been experiencing since you returned from the beach. The mere thought makes a dull weight tumble in your stomach. What else has he seen of yours, with all of your dreaming hours at his disposal? Though extremely familiar, it is after all a stranger that stands before you. And yet he must know more about you than you could ever find out about him. Simply thinking about it makes you shudder.
Your lips part to give way to an answer – a difficult task after such an introduction – but he seems to catch your dazzlement before you’re able to express it. His fierceness is replaced by his usual placid, empty stare. Though his eyes are now unexpressive, you wonder if he did that on purpose, to relieve you of your embarrassment.
“Come”, he says, turning towards the castle and finally releasing you from his stare. “I believe you and I both seek answers”.
Tentatively, you take a step forward, joining him on the cobbled path. As you walk, the tail of his coat brushes lightly against your calves.
the demiurge | a dream of the endless x reader fanfic [part 1]
[ao3] [part two]
summary: You stumble into the Dreaming by accident. When Morpheus realizes you have been altering his realm in your sleep and creating freely, something no mortal has ever been able to do, he decides to take you in as a guest. To test your abilities, of course, and to discover who you really are.
What he really finds are answers about himself, and about what he truly needs.
word count: 2.7k
warnings: none yet. gn!reader.
a/n: well, this was truly inevitable. my soul was sucked away by this series and I have no idea how you're supposed to enjoy anything without obsessing over it, so, well. please tap once if I'm not alone in this. /sighs
jumping on the train of lucid dreamer!reader, but I'll be giving it a twist for, erm, entertainment purposes. english is not my mother tongue, so ignore any blatant mistakes.
comments and opinions are very appreciated! see you soon.
_____________________________
demiurge [dem-ee-urj]
an autonomous creative force or decisive power
In the beginning, there’s nothing more than a languorous blackness and a feeble, tingling white dust. But then its particles crust over the darkness to form the gritty shapes of crumbled walls, steps, and brittle concrete, shaping a scene of hopelessness and destruction. Distantly, you recognize you must be dreaming. And yet, somehow you feel strangely alert.
This must have been a castle, somewhen. The rounded and regal disposition of the staircases tells you before you can recognize the dimensions of the room, but among the debris and eerie atmosphere, it’s hard to form an idea of what the palace truly must have looked like. It’s an unsettling and sinister scene. Still, you find yourself somewhat curious. Fragments of glass crumble under your shoes as you take a first, tentative step, but otherwise, silence continues to reign the deserted castle.
You wonder if there’s a throne somewhere. Regal artefacts, furniture, and effects are usually the last to decay since they’re often jealously conserved and protected from degradation. But mostly, you are drawn to the centre of the palace, like an alien, unknown gravitational force was pulling you forwards. You take a second step, then another, approaching what must have been an arch nestled under the pair of stairs, leading to a ballroom.
Suddenly, the cracking sound of concrete ceding. You raise your eyes just in time to see one of the pillars sustaining the stairway crumbling at its base and bowing towards you. Faster than you can react, the massive block of concrete plummets towards your body. You gasp and freeze, waiting for the pain of the impact – but then, unfamiliar energy seeps through your muscles, your body tenses, and a sudden gush of wind whips your hair away from your face. Then – stillness.
“Sir?”
The voice is unanticipated and unknown, and a frantic repetition of the one word is followed by rushed steps crumbling debris and getting closer to you. Though it calls you, you find it hard to concentrate on it and decipher it, because all at once you’re feeling yourself fazing away. Your toes instantly wriggle in your shoes to keep you awake, your hands grab on walls and bannisters to find balance for your wobbling body, but it’s too late. Before you wake up, your eyes manage to glance to the side of the room. There it is, the pillar – laying five meters away from you, collapsed. The moment you see it, you know. You moved it as it fell towards you. Even though you haven’t moved a muscle, you’ve felt the energy travelling through your body to the air above you, displacing the pillar, saving yourself. Your skin tingles peskily.
“Sir? Is that you?"
The voice is getting nearer, but before you can get a glimpse of its owner, your body fragments, and crumbles on itself just as the pillar had done. Your knees give way, your lids tremble, and a strange, but familiar lethargic feeling grabs you and pulls you away.
You wake to find yourself in your bed. For a few seconds, you continue to feel the sensation of gravel, crunching underneath your feet. But it was just a dream.
Standing in the palace hall, Lucienne stares at the empty room. For a moment, she could have sworn – but no. If Lord Morpheus had been back, right there in the palace, she would have surely felt him.
And still – still, she could have sworn she’d seen a pillar move…
**
There’s something strange in the dream you had yesterday. First, you remember it remarkably well. Dreams and nightmares usually fade away hours, sometimes even minutes after you’ve woken up; sensations and fragments are all you usually are left with. But this time, the details of the dream stick to your mind like glue and refuse to leave their place. The dust, the hall, the staircases. The voice. And then, the pillar – moving away from you, as if controlled by magic.
You know that dreams follow no precise rules, that physics cannot put up with what your imagination and subconscious can create. But even in your rare, brief experiences of lucid dreaming, your impact on the worlds your mind created had been limited and feeble. Most of all, they hadn’t been this detailed. Days after dreaming of the castle, you still remember that voice, like you’d listened to it in real life. And your skin still feels tingly, energized. For a while, you hope the dream might come back. That your subconscious will conjure up the image again. But a week passes, and though your memories don’t fade, your nights are dark and dreamless.
**
You wonder if you could force yourself into that world again. You’re not sure the dream you had was lucid, and you have little experience in dreams you have actual control of. But you’ve heard of people who exercise to be able to shape their dreams and construct worlds of their desire. The thought intrigues you. That energy you since have never ceased to feel tickles lightly on your skin when you think of the possibility.
The book you manage to get your hands on suggests exercising with reality checks throughout the day. By asking yourself if you’re dreaming or not while you’re awake, you create a habit it’s possible you will follow in your dreams, too. The book talks about hands and written text, the things your brain has most difficulties replicating in sleep, and suggests looking at your fingers or books multiple times a day, so to convince your mind to do that in sleep as well. In dreams, words and fingers often appear wobbly and unstable and should induce you to recognize your dreaming state. You’re not sure about it. Still, you try.
There are no results for the first four days. On the fifth, you dream of looking at your hand and thinking about something, but you’re tired and lethargic and the dream ends before you can realise what it is. To your dismay, your small success leads to nowhere, because you spend the night unaware and clouded still. But you can still hear the voice of that woman, and your skin continues to tickle. Animated by strength you didn’t know you had, you carry on.
It takes a sixth night for your exercise to pay off. Through your dream you’re reliving a test day in your first year of school – you recognize the shape of a table you thought you had forgotten. Gripping your pencil tight you start to scribble your name in the corner of the page… but the pen replies to your attempt with disorientation, scribbling wobbly letters that keep changing shape and moving freely on the blank paper. Distantly, you recognize this to be abnormal, but you cannot remember why. Then, your mind reminds you there’s something you should be doing, something you do multiple times every day: checking your hands. Your dominant hand lays the pen on the table and then rises towards your eyes. And indeed, your digits are wobbly and indistinct, their confines unstable and unfamiliar. It looks like you have four fingers. Then, fifteen. Your brain can’t elaborate the image properly.
Are you… sleeping?
Dreaming?
You feel something dragging you away, again, but this time you won’t let it. Quickly, your now lucid mind scatters to change the scenario of the dream. You concentrate, and where tables and children were, rubble and debris start to appear, the walls shift from pallid, child-friendly varnish to the dark hue of concrete, and the crumbled remains of two familiar sets of rounded stairwells slowly build at the sides of a large hall.
You’ve come back.
But somehow, though it was your imagination that formed the scenario in your head, it looks… different. Worse. The stairs have lost many of their steps. Dust has accumulated on the crumbled remains of the palace. And the light has changed to project longer, creepier shadows on what is left of the walls, like tall, menacing silhouettes observing you.
Is it then so strange that you feel compelled to go on?
It’s irresistible, that feeling – you’re lucid, yes, but to an extent, you feel like you’re being nudged to walk by a force that isn’t entirely yours to control. You feel… curious. Enticed. This time, your steps are more secure, fearless, purposeful. Immediately, without really knowing why, you head for the stairs, feeling a forceful pull to explore the first floor. There are twenty-six steps to reach the remains of the balcony dominating the hall, and when you reach the middle step of the stairwell you look up to peek at what’s on the other side of the arch. Suddenly, you see it: a big stone throne at the end of the room, deteriorated, yes, but intact nevertheless, illuminated by the feeble light coming in through shattered windowpanes.
Who lived here?
Your feet move to continue towards the top of the stairs. But you notice with disappointment that a portion of the staircase is missing, a large gap of five or six steps separating you from your destination. Could you jump? You’re not sure – though you can still feel your skin tingling in that weird energy, you don’t feel like you can trust it in such a long leap. And mostly, you fear that any misstep could drag you to awareness and wake again. So, what can you do?
Instinctively, your eyes trail to that corner of the room you know the pillar had fallen to. And indeed, you find it there, still. Crumbled and crooked just as you’d left it.
Could you… perhaps…?
It’s a dream, you repeat yourself. The whole purpose of lucid dreams is to be able to control what you’re seeing. If you’ve changed the dream and recreated the image of the palace, then why couldn’t you do this? A few steps, just enough to climb to the next floor?
Yes, you think, yes, of course you can. And immediately, that static, that energy returns to fizzle on your skin and through your muscles, waiting. Uncertain, you stare back at the void and try awkwardly to imagine the missing steps, to let them arise from your imagination.
At first, nothing happens. If anything, you feel that sensation again, the one that signals your concentration is pushing the boundaries of your dream and threatening for you to wake. No – You push forward, anchoring yourself to the floor. Digging your fingers in the stale air, grasping it.
And slowly but surely, six, unstable and undefined steps begin to emerge from thin air. Wobbling, transparent and weak, they’re not anything like their original counterparts, missing the streaks of marble of the rest of the stairs, signals of a distant, richer past. But they are steps, and the right number, and the right dimension, and they feel real. You let out a gasp of marvel and accomplishment when the steps settle with a thud against the rest of the staircase, relieving you of your mental fatigue. But your feet remained fixed, your brain perplexed, as it studies the angles of stone, their defined structure. It feels… strange. Like the molecules that made these new steps were somehow resisting you. Assembling to create something new, but with hesitation. You feel watched by them, stared at, as if you’d done something forbidden. Slowly, wearily, you kneel to try and touch them.
“You should not be able to do that”.
Oh.
You know that voice.
Instinctively, you raise your head to look at the top of the staircase, towards the source of the words. And there it is – a black woman dressed in an elegant, no, refined suit, the purple, tailed vest standing out noticeably against the whiteness of the shirt. A speck of composure and richness in a scene of desperation. And only after a few seconds do you notice her round glasses are resting on a pair of almost elfish, pointed ears.
There’s a moment of stillness as she with a shocked stare waits for an answer to her observation, but you cannot phantom a single word to say. “I –”, you pause, looking back at the steps, their molecules still kind of watching you, “I… think that too”.
For a second, shock fades to confusion as the woman processes the words you’ve just pronounced. But your concentration is drawn away when a familiar ring starts echoing through the empty palace, abruptly.
“What is that?”, you mumble, trying to search for the source of the sound. But nothing else has moved in the hall, and your thoughts are somehow becoming slower, foggier.
“What is what?”
“The ringing”, you reply, groggily. “I know… I know this ringing”.
Through blurred and wobbling vision, you manage to capture the image of her visage falling to disappointment. Distantly, while you reach to grasp for a handrail that isn’t there, you catch the sight of her arms crossing, the sound of a breath being exhaled.
“You’re waking up”, you hear her say, lips drawn in a horizontal line. Then, the image of the castle whirls on itself till it’s swallowed and sucked away by the pull of the darkness.
When you open your eyes, your alarm clock is ringing. It’s half an hour past your waking time. And still, you could swear it seemed to you like the clock had barely ringed for half a minute in your dream. Tentatively, you look at your hand; when you recognize the familiar sight of your five digits, you reach forward to stop the alarm.
**
You open your eyes the following night to see that same blackness and dust that had brought you to the castle for the first time. But when you follow it and try to lift your hand to grasp the shining particles floating in front of you, the dust swirls and settles to form a brand-new scenario. It’s a beach, or at least you think it must be, because all you can see is a desert of white, blinding sand stretching limitlessly to the horizon, flat. In the distance, the quiet, lulling sound of waves. You have no idea what your subconscious has conjured up this time, and you’re feeling almost disappointed, with no castle in sight – but then the rhythmic slaps of the tides are covered by the sound of whirlwinds, and when you turn around you are startled to see a dust devil forming, tall and menacing, just in front of you.
You take a step back when it seems to enlarge and move to engulf you. But then, just as quickly as they’ve picked up, the winds ease and let the sand fall back to the ground, like a veil dropping.
What they uncover petrifies you.
It’s a man. But it’s nothing close to a human.
Pale and tall and skeletal to the point of appearing ghastly, he would surely loom above you if it wasn’t for his crooked and hunched stance. Amidst the white and blinding sand, the black coat that wraps his bony figure stands out almost painfully for your eyes. But it is his face that captures your attention. Pearl white skin, marmorean, almost unnaturally so, and a pair of gelid blue eyes, red and lucid, staring at you.
For a fraction of a second, none of you says anything. A pained exhale slips from his parched lips as his eyes study you, a small line of bewilderment forming just between his brows. Then, a slender, scrawny hand emerges from the darkness of his coat, reaching for you, grasping thin air. The other clenches his stomach tightly.
“Help me”.
A voice deep and plush like velvet, desperate and assertive at the same time.
You want to ask what he needs. You need to know what you can do. But then his eyes roll back to show bloodshot whites, his lids flutter and close, and his knees give away as his body falls ungraciously to the sand.
Suddenly, you feel as if you’ve just woken up from a trance. As if some strange energy had just released you. Instinctively, you crouch before him and try to call him, but no word escapes your mouth, your body a tense shambles of trembling muscles and cracked breaths. When you kneel to him and try to turn him so his face isn’t smothered by the sand, his own body weighs lifelessly in your arms, unresponsive and heavy.
In desperation, you turn to look at the desert around you. There’s no one around, not a movement, not a soul. Just the stillness of the quiet sand, and distantly, almost inaudible now, the uncomforting sound of tides.
Thank you for 500+ followers!! You’re all amazing!!<33
Thank you so much for every single lovely message and encouraging comment! It truly means a lot to me to see that there are people who are interested in this blog and, more importantly, in learning random info about my country’s history, language and culture. It makes me so very happy!!
As a thank you for all the support and fun I’ve had running this blog so far, I’ve decided to hold a little giveaway! The rules and prizes will be explained in detail below, so please make sure to read them carefully!
Rules
I’m afraid you’ll have to be following this blog to enter the contest! This is a way for me to thank my followers so I’d really like the winner to be amongst them! Which means that if you’re following this blog, you don’t have to reblog or like this post to enter! I would really appreciate it though if you could reblog it so that more people can see it and participate if they want!
There will be 1 winner and I will be using random.org to draw them
The contest ends on November 22nd at 00:00 EET/UTC + 2h (as I will be needing some time to raise enough money to afford buying the gifts and sending the package /cries).
Prizes
books on Greek history and mythology*
various souvenirs (postcards, handmade gifts, magnets etc)
a CD featuring some of the greatest classics of Greek folk music
traditional Greek delicacies
plus a few secret bonus prizes!!
*the final number of books depends heavily on how much the package will end up weighing. Packages over 2 kilos can be pretty expensive and, unfortunately, cost more than I can currently afford to pay for :’)
Please don’t hesitate to send me a message in case you don’t feel comfortable participating bc you don’t want to share your real name/address/personal info!
Oh and I will be shipping internationally ofc!
Good luck everyone!! And once again, thank you so much for everything!
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