[ -- he rouses, from a state somewhere between unconscious and hypersensitive.There's something subliminal, in the way the grass sways above his head. He pushes to his feet, dazed and wondering, hands brushing through strands of green-and-lavender. He's in a meadow, and somewhere to his left, he can see the impression of his traveling companion - the shape of their body, spread out through the meadow's greenery. There are trees, heavy with strange fruits, and a soft breeze that prickles along the bare skin of his arms and the sweat on the back of his neck.Hey, he calls, and finds his throat is dry and his voice is hoarse and cracking with every syllable, you gotta' get up.He feels his ribs twinge with every breath, and the press of his hand along them nearly causes him to pass out. The fall had been a bad one, he knows. If he was this bad off, how poorly had his companion fared? He casts a look around, gasping shallowly for breath - and there, far above him: the path they had walked, trying to circumvent this field of woe. The locals had warned against it. Do not drink of the water, do not eat of the fruit, it is a cursed land. A single misstep had cast them both down the sharp embankment, and laid them out - hard. Nate peers at the sky next, trying to determine for how long they had been there.( Why, he wonders, were the locals so hellbent on avoiding this place? The fruit he can see is ripe. The grass - Sweetgrass, it was called - is soft, like a thousand delicate fingers brushing over the dirt-marred skin of his forearms. In the distance, he can see a pool of water -- and his mouth is so painfully, painfully dry. ) ]Get up. Hey, [ slowly, he moves towards the shape in the grass, leaning down with a wince to give their shoulder a shake. ] Come on, we can't stay here.