Heavy pitters pattered across the tempered roof of a lone, dark-windowed caravan. Inside the gypsy witch lay curled, a vision of soft, Botticellian art in it's finest repose amongst the hedonistic nook of her bed. Soft pillows, warm, encompassing sheets, half naked limbs in their restful revelries; sleep was such a blissful, healing thing.

Or at least it was supposed to be.

Thunder and rain ruled for the better part of this summer and old demons were always very close to the witch, yet as of late her dreams had begun to twist in a much different direction. They began the first few nights after her encounter with the Sidhe court and their prideful trickery. Still sore from the lickings she'd taken in her defense of the dear Niamh's spirit, Lilliana bore many marks from her battle, though no mar cut her as deeply as the impression of the entire event upon her subconscious.

Though love and pride were the initial reasons for the witch's vehemence in reaction to her friend's abduction, deeper, bloodier, all too familiar roots sang violently within her soul. Kin abducting kin, brutality in the guise of love, righteous zeal in the eyes of the guilty; all chords too familiar had been struck.

It was this scene, these feelings, this powerful yearning that twisted her dreams each night, shaping them into dark, black things that cried out for release.

Her heart quaked with these cries, and in that blurry world of her dreams, all Lilliana could find in her hand was that iron dagger and it's slickness of blue-green blood she'd stolen from the Summer Queen's side. In her dreams, she searched for the source of Niamh's call, half stumbling and stricken with a teary tunnel vision.

The deviant had been slain, but the soul still cried. Where had that fairy tale ending gone?

'I'll help ya', swee'lin', I'll help ya'... Jus' please don' give up.' Sweat had begun to kiss the lass' forehead, and shifting in her sleep birthed a sharp pain that began to blur the stream of her unconsciousness even further. The sharpness was breathtaking twinge at the center of her chest, a physical thing brought upon by the spiritual plane; an echo through the raw, fresh lace of scar tissue above her heart. Her power pulsed outwards, flickering like a solitary candle; a light in the vast darkness that distorted her inner eye, Lilliana's inner strength branched out, seeking, calling.

'Come t'me darlin', come back t'where ya' belong...'

It was like a shock to the system, the severance of that link; a jolt so violent and sudden that Lilliana awoke with a gasp, molten eyes flying wide as a chest tightening pain struck above her heart. Both arms rose, clasping at the new scar as her knees came up, her body curling as she laid upon her side. She laid there until her breath had caught up with the furious pace of her thoughts. Blankets pooled about the witch?s waist as she moved to the edge of her bed, sheets spilling away from the pale expanse of her thighs as unsure feet found their place upon the ground. It was all too surreal, this dream; all too familiar and undeniable.

Something wasn?t right? Something was coming unhinged inside her head, maybe, at long last? Years of rotting from the inside out, the rain-birthed flashbacks of her hands soaked in blood, the pale, ruined distress of her mother tied to the stake; and most recently, Niamh?s plight and the fairy court?s meddling.

?No?? Came her hushed, stricken voice. ??go away.? Lilliana cursed silently as she rose, giving the barest flicker of attention to the peeking light of the dawn cresting along the edges of her window.

In and out, slow and steady, the witch went about the motions of preparing herself for the day, haunted by the call from the darkness of her slumber. There was anger there, pain and frustration, a wretched sense of helplessness; all things that could be linked back to her own subconscious and the past that?d created it. Some semblance of logic was beginning to form inside the fiery buxom?s brain. Determination of some virile nature grasped her, slowly steadying her motions.

Perhaps a visit to one of the possible sources of her nighttime strife was in order; Niamh and her brother, Brishen. Their cottage wasn?t too far from her caravan and perhaps the walk would even help clear her head along the way.

While Lilliana was tossing the ideas about in her head, the uncooperative nature that one of her boot laces was showing her made her lips screw up in frustration, and she gave a mangled snarl before jerking the problem loose to finish the lace.

Boot steps that seemed oh so familiar a noise to the infamous Red Dragon were not quite so jovial this evening, but paced and unsure. There came the sound of stumbling up a step, like someone had missed their aim, cursing all he while in some muttering, intangible string. Fire bright hair was much more fickle than usual; flyaway and flared about her head in an unruly halo. Half pushing, and half slamming through the door, a disgruntled Lilliana reemerged into the commons from the back door of the building.

Her brother and Niamh had not been home, as taxing and trying as the journey had been, so the witch had decided to adjourn to the Inn for the off chance that she would find them both there.

Much was to be discussed, she felt, before the voice grew too loud to blot out.

Darcy was laying on the couch. Curled up. An old paperback copy of Frankenstein on her lap. Wearing the usual band tank top and those black shorts. Flip flops on the ground beside the couch. Forest depths looking up from her book catching sight of Lilli. Frowning slightly, "LilliLove?" She called softly with a raised brow.

The air of someone who had had a perpetually bad day clouded over the witch's head. Molten eyes so often vibrant with good humor were fogged with a manic glaze, as if thoughts of the most disturbing kind hovered just behind the shine of her irises. Confusion for the slightest moment gave the wild eyed gypsy a pause before she gave her friend a quick, quiet nod.

Darcy moved behind the bar very concerned look for her friend. She nodded to both Ryan and David before she put a hand on Lilli's shoulder, "LilliLove...What's wrong?" Looking very concerned for the Gypsy biting down on her lower lip. Very worried for her. She casts a concerned look for Mune then.

Mune returns the look to Darcy quizzically. "What... I didn't say aything."

"Wha' isn' wrong is more the question.." Steady, paced; breath in, exhale out. Something rumbled, like a coiled snake that wrapped and writhed around a bit of prey still fighting for it's life, deep within, and it was all the witch could do not to give into these inexplicable feelings. Fingers gripped the fresh fill of her glass as those eyes opened at long last. She failed at looking convincing, this she knew, but really she found she didn't care.

"I know you didn't say anything." Darcy replied said to Mune. She just wondered if he knew what was wrong with the gypsy. Looking back to Lilli she bites down on her bottom lip again, "Do you want to talk about it?" She asked very softly and calmly.

"Talkin' leads t'nothin' good this evenin', Darcy.. I'm jus' lookin' fer m'brother an' the Eire rose he keeps house with..." Molten eyes half drunk on subdued rage slipped quietly to the crayon red strands of her friend's hair. Red, red; something kept drawing her back to the color red. Like a bull, her temper flared, but for the moment, the only sign of it was the tightening of her fingers about the glass she cradled once more. Up and down, a hard, fierce draw was taken from her whiskey.

"I haven't seen Brish and his rose in a while. I hope they're doing alright." Darcy frowned again, "If there is anything I can do to help let me know okay?" She reached up to brush some of those wild strands out of her friend's face gently before letting her hand drop. Darcy didn't like to be touched whenever she was pissed and assumed Lilli was the same way. Sighing she moves past the Witch and begins to make herself the usual Screwdriver.

Darcy's careful, sane voice was only a temporary balm to soothe the witch's unusual temper. The smile her pretty, pale friend received as she moved away was weak and watery at best. Before more comments came her way to the unnatural manner she was catering, Lilliana swept up her bottle and glass from behind the line of the bar and moved towards an empty seat beside the hearth. Once settled, her hands went about the slow, meditative process of locating and lighting a small, herbal stick. Thyme, mint, witch hazel; these were all pleasant smells that overrode the tobacco in her cigarette. Fire reflected in the lamp lit brightness of her amber eyes as she stared into the flames of the hearth.
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Many thanks to the ever awesome and busy RDI Spice'n'Tucker, ShatteredandBroken, Masamune, Ambient Grace, and any other folks I didn't mention who stood witness to Lilliana's craziness! <3