Deep blue veins shine through the thin layer of paste coating the poisonmaker's hands, illuminated by a smoldering mass of {fat}, as their sharpened claws trace spiderweb patterns across the leaf's surface. Off-green droplets barely have a chance to bead up in the tracks before {gathered up, stored.} As she works, an airy metronome {internal, keeps them in time}{external, makes itself known through careful observation}; 1 (turn away) 2 (breathe in) 3 (breathe in) 4 (turn back) 1 (hold) 2 (scrape) 3 (hold) 4 ({gather}) 1 (breathe…) 2 (out…) 3 (breathe in) 4 (turn aw- A metallic ringing clashes through the symphony, carrying a familiar {smell} that draws forth {machine elves.} The old woman {stumbles} up from her chair,

{this is done in some sort of protective equipment that also doubles as like… ritualistic garb}

{or does the poison they work with fuck with their mind/body to the point where they dont need as much?}

{metronome means they don't use respirators. why? inhaling poison gives them visions, it's known to be bad but most poisonmakers come to enjoy it}

{are poisonmakers isolated and fucked up or do they occupy a mystic role?}

{mystics being defined mainly by their ability to produce the rats' signature weapon is good social commentary}

{also the act of poisonmaking causing noticeable harm to those doing it is ALSO good social commentary; traditional culture necessarily forced to die as part of adapting}

{is ratfolk society prewar?}