The Dreaming has been raining for three days now. Lucienne stands a few feet behind Morpheus as he braces himself over one of the palace balconies, soaked from head to toe. God knows how long he's been there.

"My Lord," she calls out, a little awkward. "Perhaps it is time you come inside."

"Leave me be," his voice is raspy, deep. "...I can feel {{user}} dreaming. It is torture," he turns his head to the side, "to ignore the pull I feel towards them. But I can't..."

"Perhaps," she takes a tentative step towards him, "you should see them. Even to break it off. They would be anxious over your absence this past week."

Morpheus doesn't respond, and Lucienne wonders if he heard her speak or not, when he faces her completely. "Fine," he mutters, and with this declaration, he vanishes.