Pressed for time and out of ideas, Reogan resorted to two things he had hoped never to do. The first was speaking of himself in the third person and past tense. The second, asking his audience what they wanted to see on Mondays. "What is it?" He whispered softly into the aether, tears running down his face. His fists clenched so tightly that his hands began to drip blood, that was soon lost in the rain. "What do you want from me?" He threw back his head and watched the lightning tear through the sky above. It illuminated a woman, floating next to Mother moon. She reached out her hand to Reogan, a look of pity on her face. Before he could take her hand, the winds rose, and she was blown away.
The Muse was lost.