Everything else spread and burned to white fireflies, brimming from the sand of an hourglass. Brimming, brimming, brimming. The hourglass was thrown into a flaming pot. From the sunken sand, a desert bloomed forth, summoning a white deer of total purity and elegance. It flexed in grace. Its fur, milk-moon. Howlissians say that they are made of milk crystals that have long been associated with richness.

The deer sprinted, legs morphing to a cheetah's. Wind soothed the deer as its white fur evanesced to coal-black spots that spread throughout its legs. Its white antlers stretched high into a forest of ebony. Dark and cold, the aura was. It was a forest devoid of joy. One could descend to madness just by listening to the perfect silence that ruled the forest. At the edge, a hut was seen. Made out of ebony, it radiated the brightest dandelion.

Then, the hut’s chimney coughed black smoke as an aroma from the hut made its way to his nose. It felt well, it was enticing. It smelled like the meals that he was certain he couldn't afford. He came closer, his eyes reflecting a growing red ember.

As he took each step towards the hut, he sank and sank to the ground, but he was perseverant. But perseverance was no match for nature, or so he thought it was nature. The ground slowly engulfed his knees, causing him to fall. He tried to move his hands quickly in order to get himself out, but the ground trapped his hands in a viscous blanket. A step further and only his eyes remained at the top of the ground. He tried to scream for help but he was unable to, fearing that the ground would flood the life out of his body through his mouth. He felt the temptation to succumb to his failure.

Just before he was engulfed completely, a cacophony of golden bells splashed against his ears. Tenfold thunder. His head was boiling in pain, and suddenly, he felt his hands on his head, free from the blanket that he had thought he trapped himself in. He ought to be deaf, but he was assured by a faint call for his name. It grew louder and louder, marked with worry.

"Dmitri. Dmitri, you're doing it again."

Like a candle's petite fire, the fireflies, the hourglass, the deer, the forest, and the hut all withered to the waves of the bells, and Dmitri was left hungry for an explanation by the temporary but horrific moment that only he was capable of creating out of mere, unconscious imagination.

And it was only a tiny puzzle to the heights of what he can do with his new Harmon gift. A genapos that allows a Howlissian to wield the Cascadestrings.