Lion Head Mesa basium

Five days. Five long, long days. 
And yet, she has grown strong with the travels of her past. Her muscles do not hurt so much, after crossing this path for the third time in her life. But the journey was made agonizing by brutal temperature change; snow that quickly sunk back into heat, air that shifts from thin to hazy.
And the load-bearing awkwardness that hung heavy on three sets of shoulders.

She'd never been this far south in the Wilds. Warm browns and reds are visible in the distance, sunglow that shines on tall pillars, and it sticks out like a sore thumb amid rolling plains. 
The drybrush is reminiscent of home, and for a moment, it's almost as if Wren is walking in New Bayridge again. It brings a shudder, and she's careful to keep her space from both men. 

And it's not long until they're someplace completely alien and that feeling of eerie familiarity is long gone. It's much larger than she thought it would be. She wonders if Silvertongue felt this way about the Valley when she moved. It's like a prison, she'd whispered back when the Mayfair spoke to her, and she half expected him to lean over her shoulder and snicker like a child. 
Toula. The name means nothing to her, and yet it brings anxiety. I guess we'll find out.