crunch, crunch, crunch (nanshe)
Dream sat outside the book store, the bright red bag a clerk had put his purchase into crumpled in his right hand, metal chair holding his weight. An eyebrow arched as he read, and with every line, that bag went crunch.
It happened here and there that someone had such control of their Dreamscape, or such vivid imagination that they impressed Morpheus. After milennia of doing the same thing, even if he could be everywhere at once, even if the other Oneiroi could do his job... Dream knew all dreams. The special ones, when mortals had them, stood out like the plastic of the red bag against his hand.
For the first time in his long, long life, Morpheus, a God of the Underworld, was reading a dream dictionary.
He was convinced that this particular dreamer, a psych student in his own New Orleans, was manipulating his movements according to this particular book, which Dream knew to be on the boy's bedside. Being fascinated by mortals--this one in particular-- was tiring.
Morpheus suddenly missed his father.
Crunch.
The page he looked at said "To dream of death indicates a transitional phase in your life." Morpheus shut his eyes and saw Mak, sitting at the counter in Loki's house, a poppy on her wrist. He felt his guts turn.
Crunch.
He leaned his head back against the building behind him-- the bookstore only a few blocks away from his apartment in the French Quarter-- and wished for a distraction from his own thoughts. Even Bast or Anansi would be welcome right now.
But as it would turn out, Dream was luckier than that. Far luckier.