Another in the lake.

Morpheus wondered if it was something like mischief that drove the land to draw his mortals in so inelegantly. Not that he truly thought the magics of the divine had a true conscious – but he had to wonder if the great unknown that chose and directed and gifted had some sense of identity. And he wondered if that identity might not find such clumsy entrances funny.

Something like a wry grin tweaked his lips as he padded slowly to the edge of the lake. He breathed deep of the air, the scent of wet wolf intermixed with something more divine coming to him in one drawn breath. This newcomer’s power, whatever it was, was of a similar nature to Vidar’s – the same base layer, he thought.

Of course, the poor wretch had not yet called for Morpheus, and so while the scent of this mortal’s power was familiar to him, it was still a smell he could not label. Better than the inky darkness of some of the creatures he had encountered, though.

He watched her wade to shore from a patch of shrubs, head ducked down almost to his paws so that the tips of his horns would not stretch up above the foliage – not that horned prey was unnatural, but certainly keratin stained cerulean was unlike anything a mortal had ever encountered.

Of course, the closer she drew, the more he began to suspect she herself was not of common stock – it was the face of her, dampened and darkened with water, but the sheer black markings upon her face stood out in the white of her coat. The dark curls of fur lent a ghostly shadow to her ice-blue eyes, and Morpheus breathed out, remembering Thalarctos.

Lucky for this mortal, to have come after he had been slain. He doubted her arrival would have been as smooth had she landed in a lake frozen over with ice spread by a deranged god bear.

At last, she reached solid ground. A sharp shake sent water droplets scattering from her pelt like a thousand stars, only adding to the majesty of the lake at night. He wanted to let her enjoy her surroundings, truly, but he had a duty to perform. And it wasn’t as if she would ever leave this place.

Carefully he extracted himself from the bushes he had hidden beneath, easing his horns out with a practiced ease so that they might not snag in the branches. Then, in a slow trot, he moved toward her, making no attempt to hide his movements or his approach.

It was better for her to see him, to absorb what he was, before he had reached her. He’d had enough bad experiences of wolves immediately jumping to a wrong conclusion, thinking he was one meant to harm – when, really, all he wanted to was help.

Of course, in the dark of the night, he was easily seen. Had it not been his horns, it would just as easily have been his thick white coat or his clear blue eyes that gave him away. True, he was not an overly large god, but then he did not need to be. He was The Dreamer, after all. One whose expertise did not lie in fighting.

At last, when he had drawn near enough that only a few strides separated, he dropped his head in a bow. It was a common greeting of his, a show of respect and peace. “Hello,” he said, voice feathery and gossamer, as if it might tear in two at any moment. “I am glad you are here.”

The intensity of her voice, coupled with those ghostly blue eyes momentarily caused Morpheus some inkling of concern. He had just finished with one ice-eyed mortal, who spoke words that threatened to tear his skin from his body. And now this one knew of him?

He—didn’t know how he felt about that. Even as she carried on, about catlike tails and horns instead of antlers, he stared at her, face caught between bemusement and wariness. Of course, on a creature of divinity, the expression did nothing to leech away from the godly presence he presented. But it certainly dampened it, made him immediately seem less unflappable and more—mortal.

A dangerous position to be in, that faraway side of him that rarely reared its head these days said.

He disagreed, naturally; this wolf had not the sense of Asta, had not the slow-cutting eyes, the precise words to pluck and pick.

And she further proved it as she verbally tumbled over herself, reminding him more of an excitable pup than any great schemer. Bursting in his face? Certainly, she was like some great wave, cresting higher than he had anticipated and bearing down on him with the surging power of the sea at its back. But he was quickly deciding that she was not harmful, no. Eccentric, talkative, overly—something, yes.

But she didn’t intentionally mean to hurt him, and he took that as a type of kindness, relaxing marginally as her onslaught finally began to slow.

In the face of her final words, he found himself with quite a bit to answer, a few questions of his own to ask, and – no idea where to start. Well, he had an idea. But providing guidance would trap him in answering questions, perhaps with no ability to ask his own. Still—he was nothing if not helpful. He would not be a guide if he wasn’t.

“Here,” he intoned, voice smooth as silk, something like amusement rolling along its edge, “is a land of divinity. It is not normally known to mortals." He offered her a kind look, assurance that ignorance was not a flaw to be hidden.

“If it has a name, I am not aware of it. But that you have been drawn here means that godhood has kindled within you, and your ascent is assured.” (Something pricked at him: was it truly guaranteed?)

“I am Morpheus, the Dreamer. What is your name?”

Hesitantly, he added, “And how do you know of me?”