A Cozy Night In Slumbershire

Welcome to Sleep & Sorcery. Step across the threshold into a world of myth and magic, where you can safely drift off into a deep and comfortable sleep. In tonight’s sleep story, perfect to enjoy on or near the Vernal Equinox, we’ll visit the secluded village of Slumbershire. | Key ingredients: Medieval high fantasy / LoTR-inspired | Vernal Equinox-inspired meditation | Light ASMR (crackling fire)
Music: A Glimpse of Avalon by Flouw & Back to the Shires | Sounds by ZapSplat

Transcript

Welcome to Sleep and Sorcery,

A folklore and fantasy inspired sleep series.

Step across the threshold into a world of myth and magic,

Where you can safely drift off into a deep and comfortable sleep.

My name is Laurel,

And I'll be your guide on tonight's fantastical journey.

Sleep and Sorcery is one part bedtime story,

One part guided meditation,

And one part dreamy adventure.

On each episode of Sleep and Sorcery,

I'll whisk you away to a far off time and place,

Where you'll encounter magic and mystery,

Folklore and fairy tales,

On your way to sleep.

Concentrate on my voice,

Only as long as it serves you to do so.

When you're ready,

Feel free to let go of the story and voyage into sleep.

If you are still awake as the story concludes,

I'll guide you through a relaxing body scan and meditation.

In tonight's story,

We'll visit the secluded village of Slumbershire,

Where halflings dwell,

Uninterested in the goings-on of the outside world.

You'll be welcomed into the cozy home of a dear old friend.

You sit together by the fire,

Recalling the adventures you shared long,

Long ago.

As you spin the old tales,

You'll watch the fire twist into the shapes of your memories,

Before falling asleep in your favorite armchair.

On the spring equinox,

Or vernal equinox,

The earth sits in a delicate balance between day and night,

Winter and summer.

Night and day occupy equal hours,

A phenomenon that only occurs in the spring and the fall.

Winter surrenders slowly through the transitive time of spring,

And summer gives way gradually through the transitory autumn.

On either side of the equinox lay extremes,

But at the height of transition,

A cosmic alchemy emerges.

Take in a slow,

Deep breath now.

Exhale.

Keep breathing deeply.

When you reach the top of your next breath,

Consider the feeling of transition from inhale to exhale.

At the bottom of the exhale,

Consider how the cycle begins again.

Try to make the length of your inhales equal to the length of your exhales,

Creating an equinox within your own body.

Now let that go,

And breathe normally.

Evenings like this come along only so often,

You think,

As your horse ambles down a well-worn path on the side of a grassy hill.

Until the last hour,

You've ridden swiftly and with urgency,

Eager to reach your destination.

But as it grows closer,

Your pace has slowed naturally,

As though responding to the softening of the landscape,

From rocky cliff sides and mountains to undulating hills and quiet streams.

All the better,

You think,

As it's afforded you the delight of basking in the glorious spring air and purpley sunset beyond the rolling hills of the country.

The air smells faintly of citrus,

Rosemary,

Sage,

And other cooking herbs,

Brought to you,

No doubt,

By an easterly breeze,

Picking up the fragrance of kitchen gardens in the valley you're approaching.

You should reach the home of your old friend before dark,

Even at this leisurely pace.

The temperature is pleasant and mild,

And the pinks and purple hues of the sunset reflect off the pillowy clouds,

Which lazily drift in the same direction as your horse.

This is all a welcome change from your daily existence.

As a magician of the highest order,

You advise rulers across the realm,

Often carrying matters of great importance on your shoulders.

So you were pleased,

And a bit relieved,

To receive an invitation to visit your friend in Slumbershire for a few nights and attend his 111th birthday.

You deserve to take a break from the pressures of your life,

Escape to the quiet village,

And enjoy the company of the humble folk who inhabit it.

As your horse sidles over the crest of another hill,

The valley that cradles Slumbershire comes into view.

You can't help but smile,

Thinking back on the last time you traveled here,

So many years ago,

And all that's changed since you last left.

So much has transpired in the ocean of time that you hardly recognize the figure of your memory.

And yet,

The closer you draw to the village,

The more familiar a shape that past version of you begins to take.

Enough sunlight peeks from behind the western foothills that you can see two children playing near the road that leads to the heart of Slumbershire.

When they see you come into view,

They stop their game and marvel,

Mouths agape at your presence.

It's true,

You might have ridden in on a less conspicuous horse,

But you and this animal have grown so close over the years that you respond intuitively to each other's needs.

Of course,

The children are also stunned by your stature.

The people of Slumbershire are halflings and stand much smaller than other races.

A full-grown halfling might be considered tall if his height reached a full meter.

These children are tinier still,

With chestnut curls tucked into their hats and bare feet covered with downy hair.

You nod and give the children a friendly wave as you ride past,

Hoping not to frighten them.

One of them gives you a sheepish smile and waves back.

Riding down the road,

You see a few others out and about,

Strolling home from the tavern or calling their cats inside for the night.

All take notice of you,

Several giving you quizzical glances,

But you glimpse a flash of recognition on the faces of the older folks,

As though they're scanning their memories to place where they might have seen you before.

You return every glance with kindness,

Smiling,

Or bidding the passerby a pleasant evening,

For you feel honored to be among them.

Waves of nostalgia as pleasant and gentle as the evening breeze sweep over you as you approach the heart of the village.

Quiet roars of laughter and song escape the tavern as two customers burst jovially through the door and head for home.

So little seems to have changed here since your last visit,

As though Slumbershire is a village entirely frozen in time.

In the world you inhabit,

Progress is constant.

Change is swift.

This is a good thing,

For change is necessary to move toward a brighter future.

And yet,

You think wistfully,

Perhaps the world also craves and needs hamlets like this one that resist change,

That hold on to old songs,

Old stories,

And old customs,

Lest they be lost to time.

One dazzling new sight,

However,

Stops you and your horse in your tracks.

When you passed through so many years ago,

It must have been late winter,

For the branches of the party tree were,

As you recall,

Still bare.

Now,

Returning in the spring,

The formidable oak tree stands before you in its full splendor,

And the sight is a wondrous one.

It's strung with paper lanterns,

Each of which emits a warm orange glow that peaks through the gaps in the leaves.

A breeze rustles through the branches,

Disturbing the lanterns and giving them the appearance of large fireflies in the waning dusk.

Strings of colorful bunting are hung,

Spinning out in all directions from the trunk of the tree,

Dangling over dozens of round tables that surround the arbor centerpiece.

Of course,

You chuckle,

All this is prepared in anticipation of your friend's birthday party,

An auspicious one.

He must be well loved in the community,

And of course he is,

You think,

For you adore him as well.

It takes but a moment to determine which of the many paths diverging from the tree at the heart of the village leads to your friend's home.

Though largely flat and nestled in the valley of larger hills,

Parts of Slumbershire are hilly as well.

Your friend's estate sits at the highest elevation in the village.

Once you're confident of the road,

You gingerly kick at your horse's sides and he saunters up the path.

You steal a glance back at the party tree and the tavern,

And you see a few more young halflings leave the tavern,

Singing and laughing,

Not a care in the world.

Just as the final fingers of sunlight fade from behind the distant foothills,

You see the familiar stone walkway,

The green circular door,

And small round windows of your friend's home.

Just as you remember,

It's integrated so naturally into the sweep of the earth and grass,

As though it emerged organically.

Atop the mound grows an old beech tree.

Its exposed roots curling around the home's entrance like a strong earthly embrace.

A single candle flickers in a lantern to the left of the doorway.

Tying your horse to a post in the sweet-smelling front garden,

You move through the gate,

Which creaks as it swings open and hardly notice the lettering on it,

Which reads,

No admittance except on party business.

You climb the stone steps to the entrance and,

Using your staff,

Knock thrice upon the round green door.

You hear a rustling from within,

Even a few flustered mutterings,

And you chuckle to yourself.

Finally,

The door swings open with a mighty groan,

And before you stands the venerable old halfling you missed so dearly.

He's wearing a steely expression,

No doubt prepared for the other well-wishers or nosy neighbors to be knocking at this hour.

But within a moment,

All the hardness falls away into a look of bewilderment and delight.

Oh,

He sighs,

Stepping toward you.

You drop to your knees to accommodate the height difference and welcome your friend into a warm hug,

Laughing with the full emotion of all the years,

Memories,

Missed meetings,

Blessings,

And regrets.

Oh,

I hoped you'd received the invitation,

He says,

Hugging back with a strength unexpected at his age,

But I couldn't dare myself to hope you'd come.

Pulling back and studying his face,

You say,

Surely you didn't think I'd miss your 111th birthday.

He smiles.

Looking at him in the candlelight,

You can hardly believe what you see.

In all the years since your last parting,

It seems your friend has not seen even the gentlest whisper of age.

You search his eyes for a wrinkle or fold,

And yet you fail to find one.

Though I realize now I must be 60 years too early,

You say,

For this person who stands before me can't be 111.

Oh,

Nonsense,

He blushes.

It's only the candlelight that flatters me and the fondness of old friendship.

Come inside,

Come inside.

You have to stoop generously to fit through the door,

But once inside,

The vaulted ceilings are just high enough to accommodate your full stature,

As long as you can avoid walking into any chandeliers or exposed beams.

While the exterior of the home might suggest a modest cottage,

Passing through the front door reveals a sprawling and richly appointed manor,

With hallways and rooms carved deep into the hillside.

You might have compared it to a rabbit's warren were it not so extraordinarily spacious.

The cream-colored walls are supported by deep mahogany beams and hung with family portraits and hand-drawn maps of the realm.

Your friend bustles about,

Straightening and fussing over the appearance of the house,

But you see only a warm,

Welcoming hearth that's simply perfect,

Just as it is.

You follow him into the kitchen,

Where he immediately begins brewing tea and taking an inventory of his stores.

He offers you eggs,

Bread,

A blueberry pie someone baked him in advance of the party,

Brandy,

Wine,

But you insist that tea will suffice.

Though you do take in the pleasant scent of the pie,

Do you detect a pinch of cinnamon and consider asking for a slice a bit later?

While you wait for the water to boil,

Your friend takes you by the arm and leads you out of the kitchen toward his study,

Wishing to show you something.

You take note of more maps hanging in the halls,

And it occurs to you that the hand is that of your friend's.

You ask if he drew the maps himself,

And he responds in the affirmative with a wave of his hand,

As if to say it was no effort at all.

But to you they appear intricate,

Detailed,

And exquisitely accurate,

No small feat for a member of a community well known for rarely straying beyond their own borders.

He leads you into the study,

A small room lined with bookshelves that,

Despite being significantly shorter than the ones in libraries you're accustomed to,

Seem to groan under the weight of the massive tomes that occupy them.

At the far corner of the study,

Beneath a small circular window,

Sits a modest writing desk and chair.

Upon the desk,

A red leather-bound book sits open to a page just past the middle.

Beside it,

An inkwell sits atop several loose pages,

And a feather pen rests among the debris.

Despite the lack of organization,

The study seems simply divine to you,

Frozen in a moment of warm,

Welcoming disorder.

Your friend beckons you toward the desk,

Closing the open book to show you the cover.

Before the pages fold over,

You recognize the same penmanship again,

And realize what the book must be.

He hands it to you,

Pulling his hands behind his back and blushing.

It's the book he always promised he would write about the adventures you once shared.

A little bit of warmth seems to emanate from the pages,

And the heavy volume feels quite at home in your hands.

He assures you that there is quite a bit still to be written,

But he's very proud of what's already on the pages.

Perhaps,

He suggests,

You'll read a bit of it while you're visiting,

And offer some notes.

Nothing would make you happier.

Brought out of a nostalgic reverie by the whistling of the tea kettle,

You follow your bustling friend back toward the kitchen,

But he insists you sit down and rest,

Recover from your journey,

Gesturing toward the living space.

You move toward the hearth and take the liberty of lighting a fire in the fireplace.

Much like the study,

This part of the house maintains an air of impeccable disarray.

Books teeter precariously on the edge of the end table,

And the mantelpiece is strewn with objects and artifacts.

The furniture drowns in throw pillows,

Quilts,

And wool blankets.

You sink into your favorite armchair,

The only one in the house that can accommodate your size,

And extend your legs toward the fire.

The crackling warmth loosens your tired muscles,

And you let out a relaxed sigh.

Just then,

Your friend bustles into the room,

Carrying a silver tray on which sits a porcelain tea kettle,

Two tiny teacups,

And a plate of biscuits.

He sets it down,

Commenting on the lovely roaring fire,

And pours you a cup.

When he finishes serving the tea,

He finally sits down in a chair near you,

And his energy immediately calms.

You take a sip of your tea,

Which tastes of citrus,

Honey,

And nettle leaf.

Making its way down your throat and warming your whole body,

Any soreness,

Tension,

Or exhaustion you felt gives way to a tranquil tingling.

You can't remember a time you felt this peaceful,

As the cares of court life seem to dissipate like the steam rising from your teacup.

You ask your friend how he feels about his upcoming birthday.

An impressive age,

Indeed,

And he admits to feeling wistful about youth.

The conversation turns toward the adventures you shared in years past.

He calls up memories of scaling mountains of mist and sneaking up on a band of forest trolls at their midnight fire.

His voice swells with nostalgia,

Longing,

And while you too feel a sense of yearning for a distant past,

You also cherish the quiet of Slumbershire,

A cup of soothing tea,

And a cozy armchair.

You suspect that your friend does too.

Concentrating on the hypnotic dance of the flames in the fireplace,

You kindle some of the earliest magic you learn to twist the fire into shapes before your eyes.

Of course,

You've moved beyond your reputation as a conjurer of cheap tricks,

And illusions are rudimentary sorcery,

But you can never help but smile when the eyes of a child,

Or centenarian for that matter,

Light up at the sight of such prestidigitation.

As your friend recounts the tale of the dragon's lair,

You enchant the fire to climb his words like a ladder,

Bending and swirling into a glimmering hoard of treasure.

Gold coins,

Jewel-encrusted swords and adornments,

Chests overflowing with delights,

All made of glistening fire.

Atop the mound is a great scaled beast curled,

Its tail a helix of flame,

Winding around the jewels and treasures.

Its belly rises and falls slowly with the rhythm of sleep,

And the chaotic quiver of the fire.

Your friend lets out a little gasp of amusement at the image,

Then continues his story.

He recalls entering the cave of the dragon.

At this,

You conjure a little man climbing the great hill of treasure,

And that he and the beast did not at first engage in combat,

But lively conversation.

The story trails off as the two of you gaze,

Entranced by the images in the fire.

The snoozing dragon,

The little halfling scaling the Sisyphean mound.

Then the fiery picture,

Agitated perhaps by the unconscious trail of your thoughts,

Begins to warp as though stirred like sugar into tea.

Out of the disorder,

A new image reshapes.

At first only dazzled by its loveliness,

It soon becomes a familiar sight.

The flames have taken the shape of a tumbling waterfall at the base of a glorious architectural complex.

You thank your own subconscious for calling up such an image,

That of the hidden city of the elves.

It reminds you of the other worldly hospitality of those dear friends.

You and your friend reminisce on long-missed companions who once gathered in those halls,

Sharing the ambrosial food and drink of the valley.

Your friend confides that he longs to visit this place once more,

Perhaps soon.

You nod,

Wondering if he might join you for an extended detour on the journey back to court.

He then comments on the nature of water and fire and the sublime beauty of your illusion.

For as much as the elements would seem to be opposites,

The shimmering dance of the flames is almost identical to the waterfall's catching of sunlight.

You silently admire the dear halfling whose wisdom rises often in such canny observations.

Another cup of tea leaves the two of you still and serene before the shape-shifting fire.

Your friend is the first to turn in for the evening.

Tomorrow is a big day,

After all.

As he shuffles down the hall,

He calls out that the chamber on the right is already made up and that you should make yourself at home.

You assure him you will,

But you're not quite ready to leave the comfort of the chair.

In the absence of conversation,

You take in the particular sort of quiet that settles upon the hearth.

From an open window,

A cool breeze winds its way through the hall and disturbs the chattering flame.

You hear the hum of insects and the whisper of a barn owl somewhere in the distance.

Just steps away in the valley,

More patrons may be stumbling out of the tavern,

Singing their way home in merry company.

All is at once quiet,

Still,

And yet buzzing with life and sound.

Like fire and water are kinetic cousins ever rushing and reflecting,

So are silence and sound.

It's from these subtle,

Unexpected kinships in nature that magic and alchemy emerge.

At the transformation point between sound and silence,

Fire and water,

Metal and gold,

And gold.

Somewhere in this labyrinth of half-formed thoughts,

You imagine how you might bring these theories into experimentation.

Perhaps when you return to court,

You'll create new forms of magic or attempt sorcery that's never been done before.

Deep in your belly,

A small flame ignites and burns low.

You must remember to write the theory down.

When you awake in the morning,

Now your eyelids begin to sag,

Lulled by the still dancing flames.

You no longer twist them into magnificent spectacles,

Yet they twirl and contort into ever changing shapes that skate across your memories.

You realize there's a bedchamber made for you,

One with a comfy bed and clean sheets and warm blankets,

But your weary bones are now nearly one with the grooves in the armchair.

The smell of sweet,

Night-blooming flowers,

The spring breeze and the sounds of nature from the open window give you an immeasurable feeling of comfort and connection with the world.

What would be the harm in a few more minutes?

With a wave of your hand,

You extinguish the fire,

Just as the heaviness of your eyelids overtakes your will and you let them fall closed.

Outside the window,

The breeze carries on,

Catching the fragrance of smoldering embers over the hillside and rustling the leaves and lanterns of a great oak tree.

See a glowing fire in your mind.

It crackles and burns gently.

Feel the gentle warmth radiating from the fire,

Like a warm wave traveling up from the toes.

Let that warm,

Soothing wave slowly move from the toes into the feet,

The ankles,

The lower legs,

The upper legs,

The hips.

Pause here and imagine the tension or tightness that you carry in your hips or lower body,

Falling away like a babbling waterfall.

Then imagine the wave of warmth again,

Traveling up the lower body from the toes all the way to the hips.

Then pause and meditate on the moment the warmth from the fire becomes the cool laughter of gentle water.

Watch the fire in the fireplace of your mind.

See it flicker and dance.

Then notice the changes in the shape and color.

Give way to the glimmering of the surface of a river.

Feel the transition between elements.

Return to the sensation of your body.

Let the warm wave continue to pass through the lower back,

The belly,

The upper abdomen,

The chest,

The upper back,

The shoulders,

The arms,

The hands,

The neck,

Jaw,

The face,

All the way to the crown of the head.

Pause here and feel the warmth of the fire.

Transition once again to the cool,

Free flow of water and let all of the tightness you hold in the temples,

The jaw,

The shoulders,

Or the lower back fall away from you like water over rocks.

Let the water smooth away the tension and evaporate like spray or steam.

Once again,

Feel the warmth travel like a wave through your upper body from the back and belly into the arms,

The shoulders,

The neck,

The face,

And head and pause at the very crown of your head to focus on the moment of transition as fire,

Glowing and powerful,

Full of breath and movement surrenders to the cool and cleansing power of water.

You contain both water and fire.

You contain earth and air.

Your greatest power,

Your most authentic self,

Lies at the intersection of opposites.

You contain multitudes.

You contain the fullness of the world.

Breathe in,

Feel your body,

A conduit for warmth and power and safety and risk and balance and equinox.

One governed by heavenly bodies and another of your own body.

Sweet dreams.

Reviews

Been listening to your sleep stories for 3 weeks straight now… I love them! Your voice is so calming that honestly most of the time I don’t even make it to the end haha 😄

Thank you so much for your beautiful work, it has helped me a lot 🤍

I imagined myself as a Gray Wizard. It was lovely and quite familiar

I can always fall asleep to her wonderful stories, so soothing

So pleasant to fall asleep to this. Maybe one day I’ll hear the end of one of her stories.

This is another wonderful sleep story that I love. Thank you Laurel.

One of these days, I will actually hear the whole story. ❤️

I listen to these bedtime stories every single night.
And I absolutely love them!!!!

Thank you for your stories. They help me fall asleep! 🙏🏻❤️

Wonderful, restful journey that helped me get to sleep when I was having a difficult time getting there. Thank you!

A beautiful relaxing story that helped me drift off into a lovely sleep.

Delightful story! I’ll have to listen again, as I fell asleep!

This worked well - I fell asleep before the end! Thank you. 🙏❤️😴

Another lovely, creative story. Very effective as a sleep aide!

Fell asleep and missed most of the story 😴 Great series of sleep aids. Thank you

I've been listening to this for MONTHS and it is so relaxing.

Very pleasant.

Really enjoy your stories but haven’t heard the end of one yet! Many thanks 🙏🏼🙏🏼

Her voice is soothing and I fall asleep super fast.

I loved the imagery. It was like watching somebody create a mural that comes to life paint brush stroke by stroke. I fell asleep before the rider with the hairy feet reached his destination. Can't wait for more

I fell asleep right when the meditation started it was amazing