Kroshma sat cross legged in the fields, the tips of his thumbs and fingers connect and his hands held at the base of his stomach. A breeze was throwing his scarf off the ground and playing with it carefully, treating it like a silken kitten. The grass rustled in the breeze, and left a pleasant scent that mixed with some flowers that lay about. Kroshma took these things, the sound of the wind, grass, and his scarf, and the scent of the fields, and let it overwhelm his brain with a gentle torrent,