[Morpheus is weary. He is hungry, thirsty, aching to the bone with exertion that would normally be nothing at all to him - but still he runs dutifully after the girl when he is pulled, stopping only when she does to indicate the window.
He follows her through the window with no question - perhaps it is fortune, he thinks, that he is wearing black, that he is wearing boots.
But stains are the least of their worries, he expects. She has plant life growing from within, a nightmare many have had in his time. After a moment of catching his breath:]
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He follows her through the window with no question - perhaps it is fortune, he thinks, that he is wearing black, that he is wearing boots.
But stains are the least of their worries, he expects. She has plant life growing from within, a nightmare many have had in his time. After a moment of catching his breath:]
...Thank you.
Your - your wound. How is it?