Serpent Lake My thoughts are often not nasty.

The way he was perched there, smiling, almost as if he were gloating over something, would have been odd to witness. More bizarre was the far-off look in his eye. 

He did not see the lake for what it was, rather, he peered at it as if something moved across the surface more substantial than the wind. As the air trembled across the surface it caused a slight tidal sway (if one could call it that). If he tipped his chin down he'd see himself — amorphous, swarming on all sides with slivers of collected, refracted light. He was tempted to look and knew even as he began, he would not have the willpower. Those lights were more than reflections - they were eyes, and they were watching him.

What are you doing? the wind asked. It called from behind him, turning as it danced to catch the tip of an ear. Hypnos cannot be certain that he's hearing anything at all. He could have been asleep and dreaming this, for a change. When was the last time he'd slept? For all he knew, never.

Up the lion's mane and north of the brook, that's what they said. He recited with a spritely air. Just rocks though, no lions. Bad directions. This isn't a brook this is a mirror. Can't trick me. His swarthy fur shuffled a bit as he shifted his weight, pawing at the mud. Piling it between his forepaws as if to make something, but, it just sags over.