#flynneugene

"I'm sorry, what was that?" Anna raised an eyebrow and narrowed her eyes at the man— the same man who's face had been plastered on countless wanted posters all over the kingdom— before her. 

Though she tried her hardest to conceal her fear, her voice quivered as she spoke. Surely, that alone couldn't give her away, could it? Come to think of it, she couldn't recall exactly what he had been guilty of— treason, maybe? Theft? Either way, she wanted to appear intimidating enough to chase him off, so she chose to keep her feet planted instead of running away. 

Pitch very rarely slept. But it had been a sudden craving he felt, the night before, to do so. Sleep was relatively strange. It was mortal and Pitch didn't even require sleep, but the feeling of complete relaxation was rejuvenating. The man was now settled in a mild slumber, his chest rising and falling with his breath. He looked peaceful, which was a very rare occasion. Pitch's muscles were loose and relaxed and his usual scowl had been replaced with a content smile. There was no golden sand fluttering above his head. The Sandman never sent him dreams and happiness and laughter. He rarely sent any spirits or guardians dreams at all, considering they shouldn't be sleeping.