It was pitch black. The moon loomed in the sky surrounded by the tiniest sprinkle of stars. And as an eerie mist rolled over the darkened hills a crackle began to grow. Morrigan sat up with a jolt as a plume of thick black smoke twirled its way through her tent flap like a shadow casting upon her sleeping bag. Struggling and squirming to get free from her bag, Morrigan tried to scramble her way outside. If it wasn’t so terrifying it would be funny in a way but it was hopeless, if Morrigan was too weak to even get herself out of a simple sleeping bag how was she to cope with any sort of combat. She began frantically trying to shuffle out of her tent only to be met by a face full of flames. She had no chance she simply just sat there drowning in her own sorrow, a circle of fire surrounding her. She tucked her head under the bag into the pitch black hoping it would help in some way, some weak little Morrigan way. Light began seep into the tent as it began to crumble around her. Figures began to appear standing in a circle around her. Figures that were once her friends, teachers, family even. Each knowing they had set her tent alight. Cheers were rising and tears began rolling down Morrigan’s face. Cries of well dones and yays circled her as if the flame were laughing too. It was all silenced by a cry of "the witch is dead!" Morrigan’s face stiffened, the tears stopped rolling her face and Morrigan got out of her sleeping bag.