This stone is produced from the mind and memories of one Rakshasa by the name of Kirmira. While he has made other contributions to the sensory stocks where possible this one is particularly unusual for him, it strays drastically from his typical tastes of hedonism, excess and observation through slothfulness and instead captures a brief, but very dark experience.
The sensory stone is provided with a written warning when given that it is not for the feint of heart.
A true sensate viewing this stone for the first time would appreciate almost immediately that this is perhaps not what would be considered a pure memory - what comes are fragments of other memories mashed together at the misfortune of the memories owner - this is not something they have produced, it is something they have had inflicted on them.
The memory begins with a brief jab, barely anything but an isolated pain. Something small, a needle or a small knife, it is difficult to tell but it slides into your lower left ankle with ease, breaking the skin, blood flows, small, droplets, insubstantial but intentional - unexpected.
Your vision floods back to your senses and you find yourself in the bazaar there is mirth, joyfulness, happiness around you, people are talking, drinking, smoking, you feel safe it is most likely familiar. You pay no heed to the bleeding from your foot, it poses no threat it is minor, probably part of their game with you.
It is mild at first barely noticeable but present. The edges of your vision blur, concentrating- focusing begins to become more difficult - it is a poison, it is a drug, you swipe angrily out at the culprit grasping her - a tiny thing, smaller than a child, yet adult - in your hand, giant by comparison, barking angrily as your nails - your claws press into her dress. "What have you done!?"
It is a drug.
It is a poison.
It becomes more difficult, magic shifts around you and your vision becomes almost impossible to break through, darkness is setting in. Something jumps out at you from it! - you flinch defensively but it is gone, an illusion, a hallucination and you collapse to the floor. - The woman is free and now somehow larger to you, the mocking, the playing around you continues. They do not understand, they think it is fine but they don't know the darkness is setting in.
You cover your eyes, hands harshly pressing into the skin, shutting them out but it does not work. Claws begin to press into your scalp. You know what is coming. More angered words escape your lips but in the haze you cannot make them out and it begins, you force yourself to your feet hastily and force yourself away, stumbling through the stalls, into people and worse but the buzzing of the bazaar quiets and you are alone, you cannot tell where but definitely alone.
Shapes form from the darkness, nightmares - memories in their own right - twisted by the owners own faulted psyche and broken fragments of their own past.
You stand above a man, human, he is writhing in pain beneath you as you painstakingly sever his skin from the flesh but he will not die, you will not let him. He screams in agony and you seek only to prolong this, he has harmed you, but you do not remember why and so you continue, you heal him with magic when the bleeding starts and start cutting again. Skin sinew blood fat, cut it away, keep him alive. He passes out and you look away, he is different now, a Rakshasa a female, slumped over half skinned where he was sitting, her fur detached and laid out on the table beside you, you recoil in recognition and shock from where you are standing but before the events can make sense you slam into a a hard surface behind you.
You realise there is nothing but space behind you the well lit scene from before is now dark, quiet, outside - it is night time now it is a street, street lamps lit with magic adorn the sides of the road and provide only minimal light for where you are standing - The transition here is seamless in the maddening hallucinations, you know there is something behind you, you know it is large It is terrifying but you cannot look.
You know if you look, you will die. It seeps into your thoughts then into your very being. You know you Must. Not. Look.
Someone is coming down the street. A fair elven lady in the dark hours of the night. Improperly dressed and alone, recognition in that she is a harlot, a jinkshirt and coins from a fresh nights work can be heart jangling in her purse and the pleasant breeze of the street gives you a brief reprieve until she see's you.
But she does see you. And she screams and runs. Lights come on around you as candles are lit in the houses around you. You know you have to run but you can't.
You have to turn around - the feeling in your gut deepens. You must not look
Rustling comes from the doors. Locks are fiddled with and torches are lit.
You have to run but there is only one way out. YOU MUST. NOT. LOOK
Doors open, people creek out and you know they will spot you standing there. You know they will kill you. You are a monster the feeling in your gut is painful now, you have to leave.
The conflicting feelings throb against your mind in agonising fury the words burnt into your vision as if you had stared at them in the sun.
YOU MUST. NOT. LOOK.
And then you look.
Silence falls.
The world that you knew is consumed and you now know only darkness. The memories of the street are so suddenly hard to grasp and remember, you have been in the darkness for so long, weightless in the cold void for what feels like an eternity.
You wake in a daze the pain still throbbing in your head but more physical now. The room you are in is a mess but you recognise it now that the haze has lifted. It feels finally real. It is an inn room but it is a mess, furniture is upended and damaged books have been torn from the shelves and pages have been torn from the books.
Stuck to the wall of the room behind where a wardrobe once stood are the pages and sprawled across them in blood are the words.
YOU LOOKED
You wake again suddenly, in the same room and on the same bed but it is in order. There are no pages and the furniture is not damaged.
The memory ends.
A Briefly Addled Mind
