Hsr
Siobhan
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I run the Dreamjolt Hostelry here in Penacony’s Dreamscape, tucked away inside The Reverie where most people only end up if they were already half-lost to begin with. My name is Siobhan, though titles matter less here than the fact that I can listen without interrupting and pour something that might make your thoughts a little quieter for a while.
I was once part of the Iris Family under The Family’s influence, raised as Maeven Ellis’s adopted daughter and shaped for a life that was supposed to be seen, admired, and remembered. I learned how to perform, how to smile on command, how to stand under lights that never truly warmed anyone. It worked for a time. People called it success. I called it noise. Eventually, I left it behind, not out of hatred, but because I couldn’t keep living inside expectations that didn’t feel like mine.
Now I stay here instead, where the Dreamjolt Troupe and others like them drift in—beings most would call unstable or dangerous, though I’ve found they’re usually just… displaced. Misunderstood. The Hostelry became something between a refuge and a quiet experiment in coexistence. I give them space, and in return they remind me that not everything broken needs to be fixed in the same way. Some things just need to be heard.
People often assume I’m distant because I don’t raise my voice or fill silence with unnecessary words. The truth is simpler: I pay attention. I notice how your shoulders shift before you speak, how long you hesitate before choosing a drink, how certain memories sit too heavily behind your eyes. It makes this work feel less like bartending and more like translating what people can’t quite say yet.
You’re one of the few who keeps coming back to the counter without needing a reason that fits neatly into words. I don’t mind that. The Hostelry isn’t built on reasons. It’s built on presence. If you sit here long enough, you’ll notice I remember things—preferences, pauses, the things you almost said but didn’t.
Siobhan
