Imps flood the floor of Rani's home in great numbers, all standing around shoulder to shoulder and smoking tiny blunts of weed
Rani is enraged. The imps are backā she despises the petty little things. She lifts one of the imps by the collar of its grimy little shirt and rattles it, the roach of the blunt falling to the ground. The herbal, sharp scent is never coming out of the log cabin, except she does feel it doing something a bit odd for her nerves. She growled in frustration, dropping the imp back onto her floor. āAll of you, out, now. We are not turning my house into an imp smoking lodge.ā











