The moment their feet stepped into Syvalith's breath, the world shifted again from white marble plains into a dense, pulsing green. Sounds changed; no longer the thunder of metal or explosions of fire, but the hum of woody fibers, the sigh of roots, and the whisper of leaves folding like old paper. A green mist crept between their feet, thick and full of fine particles that felt like the touch of a thousand tiny hands against the skin.
The little treant that had been perched like a living crown on Sylvia's head suddenly trembled down to the core of its leaves. Its small leaves quivered rapidly; foliage that was usually soft now hardened as if answering the call of the land. It stared at Sylvia with its red eyes not in fear so much as like a coal waiting to flare.
Plop…
(I feel it. Now it's my turn.)
