"Hah, nothing becomes of them, though that's a fair question here. --No, but sometimes after the wrong dreams..." Bahorel lounges sideways across the bed and looks up. They're good ceilings, really. Solid. He does like the room.

"Sometimes, after the wrong dreams, it's just the wrong ceiling, that's all. It's not home. Wake up dizzy in a dream and it feels like drowning." He says it with no embarrassment at all. "But both of us used to wander around at night, and fall asleep under a balcony or a branch; so that--" he stretches out to tap a branch of the odd lean-to "is close enough, sometimes."