Blackfeather Woods Bloody Mary, full of vodka, blessed are you amongst cocktails.

The words echo in her head, seemingly coming from everywhere. Cicero is a smudge in the fog, grays and whites and blacks blending in with each other, but it his eyes that stand out. They burn through the clouds of her vision, one a hot ember, the other a cold, distant star. A voice comes from those eyes and everywhere again and Potema's snarl grows louder. Th-ff-theee-they stilll breafe! Her tongue is thick and heavy in her mouth, slowing down and muffling her words as they attempt to spill out of her mouth — and they do, like molasses would from a jar. Her body quivers with an untapped rage unable to quickly flow out of her body to match the rising tide within.