There exists, in the world of Dreams, a girl of pale skin, dark countenance and darker moods. A quiet girl of maybe sixteen, who prefers the dimmed light of false dawn or early evening to the harsh light of the full day's sun. This girl lives a quiet, somewhat solitary life above her parents' garage; they only asked once why their little 'Aggie' wanted to live in such a musty, poorly-heated place. Eguskina – she loathed that nickname, Aggie – gave only a faint, rare smile and murmured softly, 'I like it there.'

The girl spends most of her time there when not at work. She enjoys the slight creak of the stairs as one approaches the door; not loud enough to hurt her ears as she climbed up or down, and she can hear anyone approaching.

All the trappings of normal civilization are found. She's converted one space into a kitchen; another is clearly a living/library room, with more old books than you imagined a girl her age would be interested in; a sleeping area; and a tiny washroom and shower. Dust collects in the corners and on surfaces. An old, worn rug her parents had intended on throwing out lies on the floor; she'd salvaged it by pleading that she 'couldn't bear to part with it'. Most of the color is either faded or worn away, but the thin creature loves it.

She keeps the bug traps set aside, away from view. What few visitors she might allow would not care to see them – nor where those bugs ended up. She keeps the cobwebs in the corners more to avoid notice; if she didn't have them, people might look upon it oddly, and those of her own kith laugh delicately behind her back.

Her bed is an old four-poster, moth-eaten linens shielding it from the rest of the room. All in all it's not a pleasant place to the normal eye – most would look oddly upon the state of disrepair the girl takes comfort in, and hardly a soul would understand.

Within the Dream, it becomes quite rapidly apparent why.

The somewhat thin girl is emaciated here, fragile yet her movements are very smooth. Her face a near-deathly white, her ragged, unbrushed hair falling around her face. Dark velvet clothes surround her body.

A glass of milk has sat out on the table for nearly half the day; finally she reaches for it and sips slowly as if a delicacy to be savored. And to a Sluagh named Tasi, it is.

She sets the glass down and reaches with lace-gloved hands for a few sheets of music. It will take her some time to get the piece down, but she's trying.

'If only those fools will let me alone long enough to do so.' The voice is barely heard, a mere whisper to nobody, and with a snort, she reaches for the glass of half-curdled milk.

'Not likely.'