Swiftcurrent Creek [m] I am the Kanye West Kanye West thinks he is

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The second dream was not so kind.
Reverie was fitful this time, little noises of distress in her throat and twitching episodes gripping her limbs. She was aware of her body, prone and helpless within the den; overheated with the contact between herself and Lestan and Blossom but helpless to move. She felt the slow expansion of her lungs, a heavy and suffocating sensation. The dark pressed in, demanding.
Small gods —
She could hear the tiny scratches of tiny claws now. She could feel them. A thousand little pinpricks, stinging her, burrowing into her skin. She looked down and in horror she saw the intimate details of her own flesh torn asunder. Skin peeled away, fur matted with blood; the delicate workings of her body exposed, gleaming and red. Wetness on her muzzle. She cried out even as she bent to bury itching teeth into the soft slick mess, to root around inside of herself with desperate clicks of her jaw.
She had to find it, find it, get it out —
And she was sickened with the hot metallic taste of her own flesh, the squelching sound of blood and organ torn and pushed aside, the steady pulse of so much blood drying into a sticky chill at her cheeks and throat. I have to find it, I have to, I —

You will burn —
Reverie screamed.

But in the world outside of herself, it was only silent... and what emerged from the dream was not
entirely
Reverie.

I found it, she thought, and smiled to herself.