Go. The Fuck. To sleep.

Fever, master of her dream domain, frowned when water splashed her. The eruption from the lake scared away the fireflies and that frown deepened. Grandpa Moros pulled himself from the water and shambled towards her. A normal child should have been pissing their furry pants, but Fever was far from normal. She wasn't afraid of anything. Not yet, anyway. Too young and fresh to have tasted fear. So, when the hulking brute lay on the stony earth before her and extended his paw, she went right up to him.

One tiny, nimble paw extended, smacking into the brutes giant pads like a low-five. Then she pointed at him, brow still furrowed. "You got me wet and you scared the fireflies away," she chastised in sweet, girly tones. Then, as though telling him so aloud made everything right, she walked past his paw and straight into his chest, curling up against him and facing outward as though his forelegs were the arms of some great, ruby throne. It was a dream so, in her mind, he was already dry.

Moros was her grandfather. He was family. It never crossed her mind that family might want to harm her. She curled up with Al and Manea, so why not with Moros. The little horned girl looked up at her great-grandfather's chin and made a request. "Tell me story."

"Fever Mendacium"