Chapped lips as thick-skinned maggots, seared with a torch… Head rings with memories of the fire: an echo so painful it resonates through time. Swallowing was out of the question – throat had fused in the heat. The great flame of memory flickers through a fog of years spent numb. “Medicine” quieted everything, even the faintest of thought. Only now had it faded.. in it’s place sobriety and the grim reality of having been institutionalized for so very long. Others wake too – clear eyes dancing about ready to see what has gone unseen.

You are no hero. Equipped only with your wit and burdened with demons of the past you must make your mark on this world: a place not unlike our own.

Mundane Accounts of the Exalted