While the residents of the manor moved away for the past two months, those that stayed behind were few - but Sullivan and Zephir were of them. And without so many lives around them to properly perceive them, they slipped in and out of balance; keeping one another as even as they could, forms shifting wildly this way and that.

To keep himself occupied with lack of others around and a still surging feeling of upset within his core, Sullivan helped tend to the gardens - where Zephir grew greenery, Sullivan contributed with poisonous sister-plants and free growing fungi. The poisons were of varying effects, some that were simple rash-giving, sick-making types. Others were more lethal. The fungi had their own unique effects; hallucinogenic, arousal-making ones if eaten. But the spores that floated freely brought their own effects too.

A sickness that inspired rot inside, a sludge that felt like a flu but that allowed Sullivan to cultivate near-death touches. A rot that he or Zephir could clear, but that he preferred to allow to fester. Fatigue, weakness, a persistent cough and fever. Something to put the unsuspecting ones upon their deathbed, as close to tasting their ends as he could be.