It takes Myr all of thirty seconds in the impossible forest to prove beyond any reasonable doubt that he is not Dalish. He's doing his level best not to simply go crashing through the undergrowth like a bear on a rampage--having to go slowly enough to feel the ground before him out with his staff helps there--but he's also got an awful sinking feeling that he's deeply disappointing his primordial ancestors all the same. So much for that fabled elven grace, he thinks wryly to himself as he disentangles his leg from a grasping raspberry cane. Never, in any description he'd read of a forest, had it been made clear to him that they were full to the brim of malevolent plants just waiting to trip up the innocent.
Some five minutes in to his spontaneous trek, it occurs to him that he may well get irretrievably lost in these woods if he's not careful. Maybe he's already irretrievably lost. He halts by the sturdy bole of what smells like a pine, resting a hand on it as he stops to consider that horrible thought. (It brings to mind Ser Jarom's grousing on the way to Kirkwall: "Don't one of you spellflingers set a foot off this road if you don't fancy getting eaten by a bear." Maker love the old bastard but he'd been thoroughly convinced his mage charges were helpless babes outside the walls of their tower. ...And maybe he wasn't wrong.)
But--no, it's bounded on its edges by the Chantry crater, and that's not so large a man couldn't walk across it in less than an hour. Myr's only trapped if he's started going in circles, and thinking of that jars loose something he'd read once in a skinny little book on trailcraft. He's just got to mark the trees so he knows which ones he's already passed, and then he's got a path out of here, right? Right.
Start with this one. He drags two fingers down and across and down again, shaping creation magic into tiny rune unobtrusive rune. It snaps to brilliant green life at a muttered word and begins to chime quietly, announcing its presence at ten-second intervals. Myr listens for a moment to make sure the timing and tone are right, then breaks into a grin. This will work fine!
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Some five minutes in to his spontaneous trek, it occurs to him that he may well get irretrievably lost in these woods if he's not careful. Maybe he's already irretrievably lost. He halts by the sturdy bole of what smells like a pine, resting a hand on it as he stops to consider that horrible thought. (It brings to mind Ser Jarom's grousing on the way to Kirkwall: "Don't one of you spellflingers set a foot off this road if you don't fancy getting eaten by a bear." Maker love the old bastard but he'd been thoroughly convinced his mage charges were helpless babes outside the walls of their tower. ...And maybe he wasn't wrong.)
But--no, it's bounded on its edges by the Chantry crater, and that's not so large a man couldn't walk across it in less than an hour. Myr's only trapped if he's started going in circles, and thinking of that jars loose something he'd read once in a skinny little book on trailcraft. He's just got to mark the trees so he knows which ones he's already passed, and then he's got a path out of here, right? Right.
Start with this one. He drags two fingers down and across and down again, shaping creation magic into tiny rune unobtrusive rune. It snaps to brilliant green life at a muttered word and begins to chime quietly, announcing its presence at ten-second intervals. Myr listens for a moment to make sure the timing and tone are right, then breaks into a grin. This will work fine!
...And...now his hand is covered in sap. Eugh.