A bard on a royal quest to honor duty without compromising a fabulous life of her own design...

”You... Mongrels! Fiends!” the woman nearly spat, her pointed elfin ears flexing up and down in her fury. She didn’t hesitate in backing away from the imposing, rather poorly groomed human that she immediately recognized from earlier in the club. He had the look of someone who might crush her skull or worse, of the kind of man that ravishing creatures like herself should never find themselves alone in dark alleys with.

Perfect. That was exactly the kind of man she had been trying to attract, the kind of man who would invariably take the bait. And she’d only had to work this seedy venue a little over a week to do it.

Suddenly, those luminous, golden eyes seemed to swell, to draw him in even as those succulent, darkly painted lips snaked in a truly magnificent manner, from furious scowl to heart wrenching sob.

”You tried to kidnap me! How... How could you do such a thing?” the woman cried, covering her lovely face with her hands as the snowy cascade of her hair spilled over her shoulder.

With a shake of his head, the large, scruffy-looking man grunted. It was loud, echoing through the alleyway. Something was buzzing in his brain as a sudden supernatural urge to see to her every need took hold. Casting a forlorn look over at the shattered remnants of his bottle, Khalem wondered just how much of that wretched piss-wine he had drank tonight. There was still a slurp of the dark crimson liquid left. Somehow, the bottom of the bottle had stayed whole even after the brutal bludgeoning of his now dead partners-in-crime, and subsequent landing on the cobble.

“Hey, hey,” he reached out with one meaty hand and awkwardly patted her shoulder.  Khalem felt fuzzy and a little dizzy. He did not like it but hell, he had felt worse. “None of that now.” He tried his best smile, at which the woman flinched. With blood-shot eyes and that slightly drunken, crooked grin, he looked more like a grimacing bear. He needed a shave. And a haircut.

“No reason to cry,” he said, gathering her slender body and pulling her in, heavily muscled arms wrapping around the dancer’s smaller frame. “I-I stopped them. It was just... all a mistake.”



Her fans know her as Dream, the beautiful and glamorous performing artist as known for her sex appeal as she is for her soaring vocals and captivating dance. She stands a touch under six feet tall in her heels, with skin like caramel and hair like snow, often styled up in an eye-catching mohawk when it isn’t falling down the side of her face. Golden eyes that seem to capture light in an almost feral manner survey her environment with alertness and intelligence, and pierced elfin ears flex in quirkish tribute to a wide assortment of fox-like mannerisms. Aisling is undeniably charismatic—every gesture in every mood, from the subtle pursing of darkly painted lips to the theatrical flourishes of dexterous hands, seems to elicit a response from the onlooker.

Witty, flirty, and fiendishly charming, her silver tongue has been accused of having a reality-warping power all its own.