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Almost there. The surface is within reach. And just as it is breached - there is… dirt? The ‘ame coughs and splutters, having felt the water in her lungs, suffocating her - flooding her every sense… just moments prior. But nothing is expelled from her lungs. Her clothes are dry, and the empty breeze brushes past her. The weeping tide pools of that foreign beach are long gone... as are the creatures that studied her curiously within the bluest of waters ever witnessed by the drugged druid. There is no sea to swallow her whole, here. It wasn’t real. Shaking palms are pressed flat against the dirt, bleary emerald eyes wide open, struggling to focus. Her strength wanes, joints unreliable and bound to buckle. With heavy breaths and the remnants of a now fleeing panic, the vague shape of a tree is made out… close enough to allow her to grab onto and pull herself up out of the dirt. As soon as she is upright - the urge to surrender to the ground that pulls her is strong… tugging at her legs and promising her the sleep she so desperately needs. Fingers, metal and flesh alike - dig into the tree’s bark, leaving splinters beneath her fingernails… but that is the least of the druid’s worry. She takes only a few wobbled steps forward… legs giving out, immediately collapsing into the dirt. But it is different, this time… no effort made to combat the exhaustion. Instead, a moment to reflect is presented to her, an option begrudgingly taken as she draws her legs inwards, folding them and binding them to herself with shaking arms. Her heavy, aching head is set atop her knees as dark, blurry eyes look out across the water. The moon hangs high in the sky, shining down upon the disoriented woman at the base of that tree. Stars twinkle, reflected in the ocean below. This time of night is quiet. The nocturnal fauna of the mountainous forest terrain go about their business as usual - skirting around her when need be, as if she were not even there. A few moonflowers unfurl a few feet away upon the cliffside bathed in a soft silver glow. It should be peaceful. But that head of hers wasn’t the only thing heavy… aching, splintering. She is alone now, on that cliff. There is no one else here. The bustle of the Amathine clinic, the serene clarity of the Glade of Hileia, the comfort of her personal grotto... are all far off, as is the chatter and warmth found around Nevaehlen's fires. Just the waves that claw at the cliffside, the breeze, and her. There is nowhere to hide anymore. Even if she ran, right that second, with everything in her - scaling that mountain frantically - there is no escape. No longer can she run from herself. Running is all she knows to do. And now that has been taken from her… she stares - for a long while, unmoving - out towards the vast expanse of sea just below the cliffs where she sits. This is the eye of the hurricane. This grief is not yet done with her - more is to come just beyond this pocket of solitude. They echo in her mind, words that she had so frequently spoken to her brother. A piece of her that now rests within the Eternal Forest. I am Emerald. I endure all things. But you cannot endure what you do not allow yourself to feel. Feel it. The grieving druid rises, from the dirt... slow moving, half-drugged. With a fortified mind - one that endures all that comes, and what will come to challenge it - the trek onward, the journey home begins. Uneasy, unsteady, but surely, Arle staggers onwards... reaching a sturdy wall of stone that now blocks the way forward. She stares up at the mountains that lie ahead, dread washing over her. The ‘ame turns about, orienting herself. This land is familiar. The song of nature around her is known, well enough, but still does not guarantee a smooth route back to the Glade. There is a long ways to go. There is a rocky platform within reach, though. A sigh is exhaled, and shaking hands reach upwards to hoist herself up onto the plateau… a task that is just barely accomplished, followed by a buckling of knees and a labored wheeze. There is so much green, so much life, blooming and swaying - some slumbering, in the middle-0f-night time that it is, in this moment. It feels endless, this range of mountains. But the path is perilous, wrought with devious ledges, steep drops, and deceitful protrusions - seemingly a perfect hand-hold, until it breaks apart the very second any weight is placed upon it… leaving Arle scrambling and slipping. An already sluggish woman now battered, scratches and scrapes littering her sun kissed skin. Arle’s feet ache, arms sore and head pounding. A brief reprieve provided by a small, grassy plateau - giraffe reaching upwards to feed upon the leaves and apples of trees swaying in the wind, and abundant blossoms blooming in shades of pink, yellow, violet, and white. It does not remedy the physical impairment the ‘ame currently faces… but it offers the tiniest bit of peace to the druid as she passes through. Not long after, she is greeted by more to scale, with tricky footing… an easy task, surely, if she were not as worn down as she is - her collapse inevitable and impending. Against her better judgment, a rather jagged rock is reached for as the 'ame seeks higher ground... the only way home. Fumbling, she slips, a sharp gasp drawn from heavy lungs as an unexpected gash is torn through the skin of her inked palm. It bleeds profusely, forcing Arle to take a small break as she retreats back to a small patch of grass nearby. In this state, in this place, all she can do is tear a strip of fabric from the bottom of her robe-like skirt, wrapping it tightly around the injury and dragging herself up to stand. Onwards. Her breathing is labored, every step reinforcing and feeding the exhaustion that threatens to take over. Over a few hills, though, something in the distance is spotted. A spire belonging to Amathine’s capital city - within it, her home; The Glade of Hileia. A small laugh slips from the delirious druid, met nearly instantly with a wave of pain and a bout of dizziness. Without care, ignoring everything in her body that advises against it… the woman breaks into a sprint, stumbling - and taking a few tumbles. (The last of which nearly took her out right then, with just a little farther to go.) Nonetheless, the Sirame picks herself up - making her way slowly, clumsily, through the forest to the city’s entrance and through the square, into the glade. Dawn is not far off, the sun beginning to push up through the horizon to chase away the moon and stars… but it was no matter to that Magnolia. She was home. No effort is made to get to her own room as she reaches the Vulnrith hall, as there truly is no energy left to expend for such an endeavor - and so, Arle drops down onto one of the sofas. Eyes closing and sore body relaxing, her very soul soothed by the familiarity. The soft, sweet lullaby that is the song of nature around her is heard as sleep takes her for the first time in days… with no drug induced visions. Just rest. At last.

Kaethul #2: Peace and Coin The Commerce City State of Kaethul accepts the minas provided by Haelun'or as reparations for the unfortunate events that occurred an Elven week ago where an individual was struck with uncontrollable flashbacks and attacked both a citizen of Kaethul and a foreign member of Amathine (who have negotiated their own reparations with Haelun'or on behalf of their citizen). I, Yera Silveira, Overlord of the Commerce City of Kaethul hereby pledge one hundred Minas to the affected Lady Aveline within my care who received injury from this event, and four hundred Minas to be divided amongst the key contributors of Kaethul, in addition to half the taxes of our nation. (Percentage of tax pool taken depends on weekly contribution/influence)