Her heart is thumping, hammering against her chest. Terror swept over her, infused her, heightening her senses and filling her with more than just the whispers. But they are there. Loud against the backdrop of her dream, or lack of it. There are flickering visions, slices of moments - not her own, and yet they are - of persons conquered and broken. She isn't sure where the fear is coming from, her mind is too sluggish, burdened under the blanket of her exhaustion and the lure of sleep, and she cannot fight it's pull. The Locket's. And it does pull. It tugs on her very essence, sufficing her belly with panic and heat, spreading that need throughout the rest of her body, dark and sharp, until her center awakens, twitching at first with involuntary spasms and slickness. Then it throbs, angrily, ravenously. Needing something. Something more than the twisted visions of screaming persons in her foggy mentality or the phantom sensation of using magic that suffuses her limbs and makes her writhe. Yes, in her dream she always feels like she's using magic. Powerful. Potent. Raw. Dark. It's dizzying, this release. Her body is being used, drained by the Locket. Punished in her dreams. She's overflowing with it, with urge, need, and lust for dream-obedience.