Not quite... Intruder in your room

In the witching hours, as the town of Barrowden and Barliman’s inn sleep, there are faint noises outside the door into your room. Too faint for human ears your sharp elven ears ought nonetheless warn you. Your soft, pretty nose is only a little more sensitive than the common folk, so the faint smell of grease is a barely noticeable oddity.

You were never the lightest of sleepers and now you have four tankards worth of good cider warming your insides and deepening your sleep. Laying on your back in the soft bed, mouth open as you sleep, you have no awareness as your door is unlocked and opened. The mechanism and hinges have been oiled and silenced with warm fat from the inn’s kitchens.

A figure pads in to the dark room on bare feet, closing the door behind it. It is no more naturally stealthy than any of the other town’s folk, but it moves with care towards the bed. The figure has learned every obstacle and creaking floorboard between the door and the bed in every bedchamber of the inn. This is not the first time it has done this. Not at all.

You give a snuffled drunken snore and the figure freezes by your bed. But you give no further sign of waking. The figure unstoppers a glass bottle and waves it beneath your nose. You inhale pink fumes that spill thick and languorous from the small vessel. The bottle is stoppered, stowed, and the figure counts sixty heartbeats.

Slap!

You are struck hard across the cheek with the back of a hand - a bitch-slap! Your head whips away, the blow cushioned by the pillow on which you lay.

Sleep is like a deep warm ocean in which you contentedly drift. The blow sends your consciousness rocketing in alarm towards the stormy surface and wakefulness. In your bed your body tenses, your thin dexterous fingers part curl into paladin fists readying for action. But the ocean of slumber has frozen! Pink-tinted ice covers its surface and prevents you from breaking the waves. You press your face to the ice and for a moment the fading pain of the blow trickles into you. Then you are drowning in the ocean. Your body relaxes, your fingers slacken. You sink into the depths of dream; quiet, cruel laughter following you as fade.

**** or bewitched. You will not wake before dawn.