You’re running through the forest. Something’s chasing you, but you don’t know what. You’re panicking, dodging from tree to tree, running through underbrush and ducking under logs, but you still hear padding feet behind you. It’s gaining all the while, and you’re not sure what to do.

He stood atop the cliff-face staring down into oblivion. Nothing mattered, not since Kama died. A freak accident, everyone told him. It couldn’t be helped. But he knew better. He knew the gods were against him, punishing him for a childhood of ill deeds.

She boiled the water, and broke the brick of tea into her pot. Her knife dug into the tightly-packed leaves, breaking off flakes into her basket, and poured the violently bubbling water over them. Not even a minute passed before she took them out of the water, leaving a pot of rich, potent tea.

She tended her garden well, as she always did. This was her forest, her plants, her garden, her trees. It surrounded the tree she called home, the tree her soul was linked with, the place she could never leave, and could never imagine wanting to.

Some call me Kannoran. Others, Dral’gathach. Others still, Bassant. I don’t belong here. That statement sticks with me wherever I go. No matter my place of rest, I don’t belong. I never have. I never will. I’ve come to terms with this. I don’t belong here.

The smoke pours from the tower. It’s all your fault. You know it is. You can’t help but bury your head in your hands and cry. Years of work just went down the toilet. Sure, the creature is alive and showing all signs that everything functions just like you wanted, but that does no good when it’s burst out of its cage and set fire to your lab. Your funding just literally went up in flames.