The shaman.
The one power that is only bestowed on a handful of mice, it brought a chill down your spine, and a ominous feeling of forboding. Summoning objects in thin air, anchoring those objects. Building the bridge to the cheese, and bringing all the mice back. Being revered by all mice.
Or, of course. There are those who just shoot cannons after cannons, making anvil gods out of thin air, and destroying all mice to oblivion. No one knows how those shamans came to be. How they lost all their sense of pride, the joy of saving mice.
I had just met one of those shamans, and I had barely escaped with my life. I was in Vanilla. Gathering cheese, occasionally being hit over the head by careless planks. A ball here and there, a couple of boxes. All of those shrank in comparison to what happened next.
I saw him. A cowled cloak, black as night with some red splotches here and there. I took a slightly closer look, and I almost fainted at the sight. Blood, some still fresh. I looked across his face, hoping for some sign he wasn't a maniac. But I felt my blood go cold from his eyes. They were not of the gentle browns of the earth, nor the greens of the rich grass. No, it wasn't any normal mice's eye color.
They were the color of the blood on his cloak.
