She found the mare quickly. Something was wrong: colors and shapes and smells and ideas flashed into being and just as quickly dissolved into glittering dust. A brown-white meniscus crept up over the dust and swallowed it. Her dreams were completely broken, unrelated thoughts fluttering off like a photo album bucked into a wall. There was no rhyme or reason to it, and Luna could detect the influence of potions. It was risky to try and slip into the dreams of an intoxicated individual; it could lead to madness. It was only slightly less dangerous than turning dreaming magic around on one’s self. Luna moved away as quickly as she could.