Minxuan would like to think she was a master of escaping death — but in this life she was not.


Or more accurately, her previous one.


The last thing she could see was her vision truning blurry. taste was the metallic notes of blood pooling in her throat, and smell was sulfur and bleach within the air. The young apothoary had meddled with fate for the last time by allowing that flower to slip past her lips, call it a lapse in judgment. Or just simple curiosity.


Simple for her, at least.


However, when she'd wake, stirring from her slumber groggy-eyed and disoriented, it was not her clinic that she'd woken up on. Nor the wodden work bench where the various dried leaves and petals remained scattered about. It was grass — it was all around her. The distant call of tropical birds and night crickets rung loudly thought the darkness of night, and the only thing that cusioned her was her own paw pads.


Minxuan was not dead, she was curled up in a ball sleeping.


Or so she'd thought.


搞什么鬼？ (What the fuck?)


She squinted, making out the shapes of tall trees and vines. Her ears twitched to the sound of commotion near by. A celebration? Where exactly was she? More importantly…what….


What was the name of the flower that had put her to sleep?


Out of all things, she'd forgotten that!?