The Balladeer and Beth exchange a glance in turn, before he nods to her. That's a shorter explanation, given that it barely exists at all. "I don't know about all that," she replies, flicking her wings and rather conspicuously leaning down to smooth out the feathers on her breast. They're hardly evil, for all that some other people's daemons might be. "But that's what we're called. The animals like us. Everybody's got one, in these dreams."

"They do feel real," the Balladeer continues, picking up after her as if they'd scripted it. He can feel the heat of the fire, and the dirt beneath his feet. "They always do. But dreams like this happen a lot here. We think it's the Rift." He can't imagine what else it would be. Nasty, capricious sort of thing. "It can be hard to tell, but you'll get a sense for them eventually. It's usually every couple of weeks."