Patch-worked, tattooed and barefoot. I am a flea-bitten shaman, and I seem to have lost an aspect of my Self. Rocks tumbling from my pockets, I am wanted. I replace them with almonds, but I've still got a drowning feeling that I'm being humored. (Maybe) it's all in my head, and (maybe) it's just the full moon smiling down at me. I expect her to work her magic when she's at her brightest, but it makes just as much sense to assume that she'd weave our spells patiently and unseen; shielded by light.
My first instinct is to get even higher; contemplate an agreement I made with a bard of a magician a few lives back. (Maybe) I'll find a handful of holographic memories on the way.