He closed his eyes and he saw the vision… again.

His hands were covered in blood. It was warm, the blood, and the flesh that it slowly dripped from. The flesh wasn’t intact anymore, rather it was torn and rent as if the sheer force of his rage had reached out from his thoughts and torn the body itself. The metallic smell clung to his nose like the bouquet of a fine wine. The taste… the taste was more than he could bear, sweet and salty.

With a cry, he opened his eyes back up and shook his head. The farmer that he was passing on the dusty road looked at him with curiosity, then dismissed him. He clutched at his pack and his sack of map tubes and walked on.

His thoughts flickered between despair and determination. He would not, could not! let these thoughts overtake him. No, it would be different this time. He would find a commission, he would lose himself in his work and perhaps, just perhaps, he could hold back the visions. His soul depended on it.

And most of all, he would not think about the taste.