As she struggles with the cloud, the Dreams box murmurs to him. Winds on the steppe, the drip of water in isolation, profound silence that eats everything, feet on the staircase going down. Gunfire, the cries of a battle. If there is kindness, something softer in this box, it isn't audible over the keening. Her dreams have always been an uneasy place.

But, wait a moment. Wait, and things clear, to hold the sound of a guitar. Of people laughing all together, the popping of logs in a campfire, the faint screeching of her wyvern. Dreams, mixed and assorted.

Fever finally wrangles the cloud down, closing the box and tossing it away from her in a huff. Junk pile, that one.

"That one needs to be sorted, but it'll make an even bigger mess."