That’s mine. Get away from it. The stuttering of a voice is heard before you, but the meekness is hardly anything to make you listen. It’s like she’s asking you, too politely, to please let her stuff go. But, as far as you’re concerned, you were here first, and you’re not done with what you’re doing. You’ve searched through about half of the plants, but none of them are even remotely familiar. Not in the way that your plants are, not in the way that you intimately know the scent, the texture, the gentle fuzz, the tiny little flowers. No, none of what you have found yet is right. It’s not yours. Still, you keep on trying, an ear flicked towards the girl as she suggests that she can offer you something, but you’re certain your searching is faster. Because obviously the girl who owns the box won’t know where she put the locoweed if she has it. Good logic.

Of course, it seems like nothing can ever get done in peace in Helovia. If you’re doing something, damn sure somebody else is going to butt their nose into it. Hey asshole. More ear flickering, but you’re rather determined and it’s not a voice you recognize by any means. Besides, it isn’t the first time you’ve been called a name or two. But you probably should have listened, because all the sudden you’re being hit. Well… maybe hit isn’t exactly the word. You’re being shoved, rather rudely at that.

Maybe if you had a few more of your vines in your system you’d be in a little better shape to withstand the thrust from the little mare. Not too many- not that point where you’re stoned out of your mind, just that point where you’re functioning normally. Normally for you, that is. But, regardless of all that, you’re not functioning normally. You had half a vine this morning. Not near enough. Her shoulder hits you just behind your left elbow, your bag jostling about in protest, and you stumble to the side. Great. Now you’ll never get to finish.

As if to prove your point, the little thing that caused the (now dully pulsing) bruise behind your elbow starts yelling again. Without hesitation, your ears fall back against your head, glaring at her. And you’re about to say something nasty when mist starts swirling up against the floor. For a moment you panic, tensing, thinking it’s the same mists that have swallowed your home, and toss your head up, stumbling back another step, metal horseshoes clinking against the stony ground. Don’t think about moving. Yeah, ok… a little too late. At least you moved away from her.

“First of all, you crazy bitch,” you begin pointedly, staring down the poisoner, “I didn’t eat a damned thing. And second of a-” You are interrupted the actions of your little boggart, responding to the menacing growls of the Aodaun. The wisp of a girl rushes from your shoulder bag, against your wishes you might add, and forms into the strangest image before your eyes. She has the most uncanny nack, as all boggarts do, of knowing what others are scared of and becoming that thing. So today, she becomes a mare, a terrible, diseased, wraith-like mare that you’ve never seen before, but a mare nevertheless. And, from what you can tell, the mare is dead. Her black body laying sideways in the air (the image being in miniature size, of course), blood seeping from every orifice, her white mane stained with the color. Lakota will recognize her as Ktulu. You just find the image annoying.

The chaos that is in your mind, both at the mares and now at your little boggart, causes the image to flicker and lose its shape, disappearing into a black wisp of nothingness. You can feel in your bond that the little wisp hopes the poisoner is affected. Maybe she’s not so bad… Sometimes. Turning then, to glare at Resplendence, you note that her limb also has a piece of glass wrapped around it. Obviously the girl has something for shiny things. “Call your damn lapdog off,” you give a glare to Lakota for good measure, doing your best to ignore the somewhat unsettling polar bear that stands beside her, before turning back to the miniscule pink mare with way too much hair. “I was just looking for some locoweed.” As if to punctuate your stupidity, the knot just behind your elbow begins to pulsate again and you begin bobbing your head in response. Or maybe it’s to ward off the creeping thoughts of your plants that are invading your mind once more. You begin sweating again, your neck slowly becoming damper. You’ve got to do something. This just isn’t working.