Othorion Sha'evlas lay beneath the branches of a Vallenwood tree,
the shade a soothing balm against the warmth of the afternoon. His
journey had been long, and fatigue tugged at his limbs. He closed
his eyes, letting the peaceful sounds of the Holy Grove lull him
into a gentle nap, the quiet rustle of leaves and distant bird calls
filling his mind.

 But in his dream, the serenity of the grove was disturbed. He stood
in the heart of the sacred woods, the air thick and unnaturally
cold. Runes marked the ground, dark symbols pulsing with a
sinister energy, feeding on the life around them. As he reached
out to heal them, an invisible tendril brushed against his hand,
draining his strength before vanishing back into the runes.

 He gasped, feeling the weight of the curse pulling at him.

"You feel it now," a voice whispered from the shadows.

From the mist, Madam Miri emerged, her presence quiet and
focused. "These runes do not just mark the land-they consume
it. We must act quickly."

 She turned to the gathered group: Senator Delsaran Sha'enlas
and Roselyn, a Skald from Nordmaar, both weary and pale. Madam
Miri spoke, her voice firm, "To heal the afflicted, I need
four objects-one of earth, wind, fire, and water. Only with
these can the potion be made." 

Without hesitation, the group scattered, gathering the necessary
elements. Madam Miri took the items and combined them in her
cauldron, the mixture glowing a dark purple, smoking, and bubbling. 

Once the potion was prepared, Madam Miri passed the vial to
Roselyn first. Without a moment's pause, Roselyn drank eagerly,
her thirst for the healing cure evident in her urgency. She gasped
as warmth spread through her body, but for a moment, nothing
changed. Slowly it seemed like Roselyn was regaining her vitality.

 Othorion drank next. The warmth flooded his body, but like
Roselyn, he felt the potion's effects slowly take root. It wasn't instant;
the runes still pulsed faintly in the air, their magic waning gradually. 

They moved swiftly, administering the potion to the sickened
animals around them. The runes dissolved, their energy
fading, leaving the grove to heal. The animals stirred,
reclaiming their strength.

 Madam Miri exhaled softly. "The potion works, but healing is
never swift. It takes time for the land to mend."

 Despite the relief in the air, Othorion's unease lingered. The
Holy Grove was healing, but something in the back of his
mind told him the task was not yet done.

 As the dream began to flicker, Othorion awoke under the
Vallenwood tree, his body still heavy with the weight of the
dream. His heart raced, and the unease grew, gnawing at him.

Was the danger truly over?