Scratching at her wounds in the dark, nightmares plaguing a victim of war, these she could tell herself were normal. She knows they aren’t, she can feel it. The buzzing under her skin, the chaotic flow thrives during the night. Her heart is always beating a wild pace before she drinks her potions. Her heart knows what her mind cannot. Her body floods with fear, fear at what is happening. Fear at that secondary feeling, the content sickness building beneath her flesh.