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The Dream Lord walks in his realm tonight, pacing a slow steady step along a path that takes him flickering from place to place, from icy slithering shingle shore to deep dripping cold jungle to searing hot grasslands to stifling close rooms to deep airless dungeon to the central endless flame of the world itself. Shadow and flame twist protectively around him, the mask on his face watching impassive and inhuman.

Here is the center of Dream, the void that balances existence, the place in which not even the Dream Lord can walk safely; it is an endless sucking spiraling darkness, an absence of everything. Up at the top of it, or perhaps down below it, the masked figure steps out of the world into a protective circle, golden flames chasing themselves across the runes that hold back hungry nothingness.

He stands there, watching the darkness spiral and flow and consume itself. Then he raises a gloved hand, stares through the mask at the tiny box in his palm, and lets it fall down past his feet, through the interstices of the lines that keep the darkness from eating him whole.

It is gone in less than an instant.

"Goodbye," the Dream Lord says quietly, and steps out of unreality to go home.