Redhawk Caldera I clap my hands and they're gone into the night

Finley wasn't the only one having strange, symbolic dreams lately. Peregrine rarely dreamed (or at least he scarcely remembered them) and never in his life had he been known to sleepwalk. But he had been under a lot of stress lately, much of which he had to hide or otherwise suppress for the kids' sake. Unable to find an outlet during his waking hours, it manifested in dark, gnarly nightmares and, on this particularly still and quiet night, he stood and began to wander without ever waking.

His dreams were violent, bloody, wrought with grief and horror. They were at times very realistic, the imagery mimicking life. Mostly, they were abstract and beyond description. The entire time, Peregrine had no idea he was dreaming. As he shuffled through the quiet May night, he made strange noises. Sometimes they sounded like sharp intakes of breath, other times they were like the sobbing cry of a loon on a distant lake.

Speaking of lakes, the Kappa stopped suddenly when his toes touched something cold and wet. He didn't wake, though he froze there, jade eyes staring unseeingly over the glassy, breathless, black surface of Lake Rodney.