Punching in a Dream

Lyon turned in his sleep, fitful and altogether unhappy with his subconscious. His limb had healed poorly, and then there was that dark woman that plagued his thoughts. Oh gods, what if he'd sired- No! Even in the depths of a murky dream he recoiled from the thought. No, no bastards. No fatherless children, never from him. His gut clenched, roiled, threatened to betray him and upchuck whatever lingered inside. Lyon surged into wakefulness, his skin clammy and cold under his thick coat. He shook himself, half dazed and more than foul tempered. What a way to start the day, and the sky was still only grey with pre-dawn.