Search the Community

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.

`*•° Ohowaki’s Journey °•*` ✯¸.•´*¨`*•°✾°•*`¨*`•.¸✯ If Fal’leon could choose anywhere to wake up after a wild drug trip, a giant birds nest lofted hundreds of feet in the air, with the smoldering desert sun beaming down, would be last on his list. And yet, that’s exactly where he finds himself. The sound of hoofbeats drumming in the distance is what properly stirs him to wakefulness, groggy and unfocused. His eyes slowly open, heavy from the concoction his Priest had given him prior to the journey. Despite them opening, light barely makes its way to his pupils, filtered heavily by a fabric… A blindfold, it seems. His lips part and a groan escapes him, remarkably displeased with the circumstances he finds himself in. In doing so, the taste of warm straw fills his mouth. Ho w peculiar. Heavy arms reach behind his head, and he fumbles with the knot that ties it tightly. Eventually, he unloops the ends and slides the blindfold off of him, immediately squinting as the unburdened rays of the harsh desert sun fill his senses. Able to see now, his head swivels, met with the desolate landscape of sand and dunes, broken up only by the occasional cactus or spiering plataus. The smell he’d been overwhelmed with, in looking downwards now, appears to be the next of a giant bird. The bones of various victims surround him, and a couple of large eggs sit neatly within some smaller straw nests. Bones… Giant eggs… Startled with the realization of- which took him longer than normal thanks to still coming off that high- this being the nest of a giant carnivorous bird, Fal’leon begins to hastily clamor towards the plateau's ridged side and out… It’s only as he’s nearly thrown himself out, he remembers… He’s a druid. Animals don’t attack druids. Flushing in embarrassment at his own panic, the half drugged elf more calmly slips out of the giant nest. His thinking is only returning in a slow trickle, but he knows for certain his final trial is to navigate back to Amathine. The desert, at least, gives him a very easy start on figuring out where he is. Somewhere near Krugmar, presumably, meaning his target location must be south west. Navigating the places he’s already explored sure beats being a bird in a strange forest… He’d be telling his Priest about that one for sure. At least it wasn’t a bad trip? Fal’leon begins to slowly descend the steep cliff-face, fingers wrapping around the ridges to support his weight. His stomach churns as he looks down towards the desert sand below, wobbling slightly in his still drugged state. Hastily, the druid turns away and faces into the plateau, a few ragged breaths escaping him as he attempts to calm his racing heart. Typically, this task would be nothing to him, but with a foggy mind every action ends up feeling as if he’s moving through thick sludge, his body responding slower than what he needs. Each few meters of descent involve a break to calm himself. Fal’leon’s body has already become sweat drenched, his robes and pants sticking to him uncomfortable. The accursed sun is unrelenting, mocking him in a cloudless sky. And yet, finally, the man’s feet reach the desert’s floor. Sand shifts under his weight and already begins to fill his shoes, much to his dismay. He’s never been fond of sand. But, at least there was no more almost slipping to his peril. Now, it’s simply to walk towards Amathine. The druid lifts a hand and rests it against his browbone, shielding his eyes from the harsh rays, trying to figure out which way East and West might be. Of course, entirely inconveniently, it appears to be right around noon, the sun lofted nearly directly above him by now. He groans, agitated by the difficulty, and simply begins walking in a direction. Surely, eventually, he’ll come to something to signify his location, regardless of if it’s a bit further away than ideal. ✯¸.•´*¨`*•°✾°•*`¨*`•.¸✯ Fal’leon trudges along through the desolate landscape slowly, wobbling with every other step with the uneven footing of the loose sand. Even through the soles of his shoes, the sand burns against his feet, making the travel that much more difficult. Finally, after what felt absurdly long, his eyes are brought with solace. Just passed the hill he’s been walking over, he can see tracks from carts, horses, and footsteps; the main road, worn down and distinct. The man breaks out into a sprint, nearly slipping and landing face first into the grains below him. As his steps become firm under the compacted path, he slows his pace. The druid bends and rests his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath, each inhale of air causing his throat to grow drier and drier. Maybe running was a mistake? Whatever, he doesn’t care, he’s found something solid to go off of. A path is good. Better yet, with the passage of time, the sun now hangs lower in the sky and clearly denotes his direction. He squints upwards for a moment, his mind beginning to clear ever so slowly. Not entirely, not at all, but enough that he can process the cardinal directions. Fal’leon follows the path south east as it meanders across the landscape, and soon enough the desolate landscape begins to show signs of life. Lush ferns droop over the path, which has begun to shift from sands into worn down dirt. The cacti of the desert are replaced with jungle trees that reach up to the clouds, and birds of countless colours flurry out from the canopy of leaves they create. He sucks in a breath of the humid air, familiar humidity. The sounds of the rain forest’s life, both the druidic song and the audible, fill his ears comfortably. Cicadas drone on, birds singing their songs, the large rivers rapids flow. If he wasn’t drenched in sweat, it might be lovely. Going from here is of ease to the druid, the simple task of heading south towards the jungle beaches. Occasionally, someone on horseback rides the opposite direction of him, sparing a passing glance. Fal’s clothes stick to him, the sweat and humidity only worsening the further south he travels. His thirst is monumental, and temptation to drink from the river flowing to his right grows with every moment. That, combined with the still lingering drugs in his system, makes the walking more unbearable. To his left, the path splits off, and a wooden sign stands proudly, with the word he’s been looking for etched into it: AMATHINE. Fal’leon turns towards it, sauntering along the path. He’s so thirsty. His journey takes him past the new settlement along the road, and he grimaces in disgust. Such an unfortunate thing, ruining the landscape and silencing nature's song. If he had any less of his better judgment, he’d have gone in and began to overgrow the plantlife. Thankfully, the drugging has all but worn off by now. Even still, he, as always, takes the long way around the settlement, casting it glares every so often. Soon enough, Fal’leon is greeted with the sight of the mali’ame kingdom, and his pace hastens. His muscles burn with the demand to rest, but, that can wait for one of the beds in his seedhall. He stumbles through the kingdom, through the glade, and into his home. He beelines for the bucket of clean water he keeps and dunks his head in, gulping it down hastily. Once contently quenched, Fal makes his way towards the beds and slumps onto one, letting himself doze off… He’ll find his Priest tomorrow and hand it in, for now, rest.