You wake up in the morning light and reach out for your customary glass of water, only to plunge your hand directly into a stinging plant. You yelp and shoot up, utterly fed up with whatever shenanigans are going on here.
On your feet, you discover that you were scratching your bramble wounds last night, and while most have scabbed over, some are looking inflamed and sore.
It seems that whatever prank has been played on you has taken a turn for the worst and you’ve probably been abandoned here, locked in this crazy thorn-filled valley. You close your eyes and take a few deep breaths.
The facts are these, and you count them off, one breath at a time.
Breath in.
You woke up here about three days ago.
Breath out.
You tried to get out on the only pathway and have found that the universe is broken in that direction.
Breath in.
You found some blackberries to eat and the wind spoke to you.
Breath out.
You open your eyes, a small part of you unreasonably annoyed that you are not back in your house, and start hiking steadfastly up one of the steep valley sides.
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The further you travel away from the path, the thicker the foliage becomes. You grunt with effort as you dodge increasingly frequent bramble branches, nettle patches and other unidentified greenery. The slope also seems to be increasing in pitch and before long, you’re literally hauling yourself up a one in two slope, praying that the next branch is not thorny. You beat a quick retreat and quickly find yourself back at the path - far quicker than your outward journey.
There are two sides to the valley though, so you grit your teeth and march up the other slope.
Several extra nettle rashes later - though not bramble scratches, as you’re becoming an expert at identifying those swinging towards your face - you find yourself back at the path, a ghost of a quote about the definition of insanity haunting your hindbrain.
You sit forlornly on the path, looking down towards the swamp and beyond that, a rocky cliff. You’re sure that the extents of those are impossibly blocked and you clutch your face in your hands.
Your stomach is rumbling now but you’re pretty sure a diet solely of blackberries will give you one more literal pain in the ass. Speaking of pain, you think that some of your bramble scratches are getting worse and hot to the touch. Your outlook seems hilariously bleak, and you’re just surrounded by useless or painful plants.
A black mood descends on you and you start grabbing at your green tormentors. In big handfuls you haul up clumps of the nearest plant. Even now, torn from the ground, they’re causing you discomfort - this one with fine hairs. You clench a wad of the hairy leaves in your hand and wipe away tears of frustration. A small rivulet of green juice trickles down your leg, right over some bad bramble scratches.
“[Comfrey discovered; novice]”
It’s that breathless wind voice again.
“[Weak healing tincture discovered]”
You can only assume that a tincture is some combination of this so called comfrey with your tears - or maybe any water. Even if it’s a weak version of a tincture, it’s allegedly healing, and what have you really got to lose? Between the impossible topologies and hostile plant life, a calming hallucination seems pretty acceptable. You hesitantly place the squishy mess of comfrey leaves on your wounds and question everything that has come before.