Mortals are vulnerable to many things when they sleep, unless they protect themselves. The thing those wretches carry is horrid. It is toxic, poisoning the heart, and yet it is not a poison, so there is no antidote. It debilitates the health, spreading like a disease, but it is not a disease, so no healer can cure it. It hangs over the victim like a dark cloud, bringing struggle and bad luck to all their days, but it is not a curse, and so no priest can make atonement for the afflicted. It cripples like a wound, and yet it is not a wound…there is no easy way, and no sure way to heal it…most never recover, not fully anyways.”
She trails off and falls into silence, as if becoming depressed by her own words, looking down at the ground.