The needles of the redwood fern are still like death, and as I slip underneath the tree, searching for my cat, the voices speak to me. Hollowed whispers, they scape into my mind long after darkness smothers the sky. Usually it's during potion brewing, when I'm preparing magic that the voices seem to slice in from all directions...ten, ten hundred voices addressing me. I stumble forward, seizing one of the fern's prickly branches to balance myself. Tightly, I press my eyes shut, and the voices, as if sensing my concentration, break into one assemble, a hissing screeching sensation...
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