As Quentin makes his way through the garden, enjoying those fruits and edibles that have ripened since the last harvest, he will find something curious. There is a track of sorts, leading through the greenery, created by the footsteps of one person passing carelessly through rows of flowers and cultivated beds rather than going around them and leaving them untouched. In the wake of this path, grasses and leaves are brittle and withered, and some are so dark as to look burnt. They crumble to ash.

Should he follow, it won't take long to discover the source. At the base of a tree, whose crown is blocking the thick mist that threatens to become rain, sits Caedra. Beside her is a pen and an open notebook with pages covered in writing done in a foreign script, all at angles and curves so that it's hard to tell where each line (if line is even the right word) is supposed to begin or end.

But she's not writing now. She's sitting, smiling to herself. Enjoying her surroundings, as dessication slowly creeps up the trunk she is leaning against, turning the bark ashen and brittle. She hears footsteps and turns her gaze to the one who wanders closer, not sure if he has seen her or not. He too looks very absorbed in his surroundings.

"Lost?"