Feeling bad looks good (dysnomia)
She had called to him, out of the ether. Dysnomia rarely did that. It made it very difficult to ignore her. Especially walking out of a family meeting that spun his entire world in the opposite direction of how it was supposed to spin.
The call was disturbing. It was simple: Morpheus, King of Dreams, ruler of the Oneiroi, Weaver of... yadda yadda yadda, I summon you. So, I was dead. This calls for many drinks. We need to make sure I haven't lost my tolerance. Do you know how much of a bitch it is to start all over again? Oh. And bring your jukebox money.
She'd died? He hadn't... why hadn't Mak said something?
Oh. The answer came to him before he could ask: Dysnomia would not be the heroine of any piece. She did not get a blessed death. She never would.
He'd gone to her, splitting part of himself off without hesitation. There had been a death; any pause he would have given before running of to Lawlessness's side was eradicated because of that.
Morpheus found where she'd wanted to meet, in Dublin -- a decently-sized bar. Around him, as he walked in, was discussion in thick accents about the new "filim" with "that kid from Titanic." He smirked and walked in the rest of the way, eyeing the jukebox to the left of him with a raised brow before settling at the bar. Dys was not here yet; he assumed she wanted to make an entrance.