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Eight-year old Morrigan Grimlove sat in her tent that warm summer night. There was a gentle breeze and the sky was illuminated with the twinkles of hundreds of stars, dancing like crystal lanterns high above the farmstead. Crickets chirped, frogs croaked and the tall grass swayed ever so slightly. This was truly a beautiful summer night, the kind that was the pinnacle of childhood wonder. Yet all this was lost on little Morrigan. The tent was set up near the pond, on the edge of the farmstead. The front was open; she lay prone, in her jeans, shoes, button-up shirt and hunting vest. Her skinny brown arms held a youth rifle, propped up on a stand. One of her dark brown eyes peered through the scope. Wrapped around the barrel of the gun was a collar. A simple dog collar with a tag that read "Star". Morrigan would never forget Star. Star was the puppy she received three years ago for the Winter Festival. Coincidentally, she had also received this very rifle that year.

the thick filter breaks and an outside sensation bursts into my dream