In the dark he rose in quiet, dreams slipping away from his skin, both his throat and lips parched. His vision was hazy at the edges and the madness receded with a brevity of it’s own. The Poison Master pulled himself up from the stool he was awkwardly collapses over and his mind felt frayed…

The field is white and grey and rarely does the hickory play. Nor flute nor magic annihilation come out to desecrate the snow. Or whimsical or mythical does mouse the meeker rise and catch the dreaming half-still thoughts from out of the leering eyes. Oh Vokuro do you stare at dawn, as if the mirror…