He has dyed brown hair of which the roots are showing, and the deep brown eyes common in that part of the world. He's of average height, average build and the clothes he wears are as unremarkable as his appearance – travel ready and worn. The only thing that's of any interest really, is the string of decorative bronze bells tied to his belt that mark him as a shaman, a mudang. But then, the mudang are ten a penny in the country and so really, that makes him nothing special at all.

And yet, the eyes that now stare at him overflow with tears. They flood the filmy surface, distorting the emotions that swim inside, but they do not conceal. And the disbelief, loss, anger and undulated hate is clear in them. And all of it, is directed at him.

How could someone who wasn't anything special have so much hate directed at him after all?

"Why?" The voice is crackled, like aged paper too old suddenly picked up for use. "It was...a good dream. Why did you wake me?"

The mudang is almost expressionless; he lets out a soft sigh, one that almost spanks of irritation, but for those who are really listening, there is also a hint of resignation. "I don't know."

He turns, the bronzes bells clinking with a rich yet ugly sound. And then, he walks away.

There are screams behind him, screams which curse his name and very being. But he has long learnt not to care.