Naaghai Lowlands [m] triple dog dare

Plata.
Silvertongue raked in and out of this plane of existence; her eyes are heavy. Panic began to surge and in what should have been an emotional reunion was instead now Wren being whisked into instinctive autopilot as her love lays close to death.
I'm here, Silver, it's me, tears spring at the corners of Wren's eyes as she bends down, brushing at the hollow cheek. I'm gonna help you, okay, baby? I'm gonna-- fuck. Just, just, stay with me, alright? Yeah? Stay awake. Keep your eyes open.
This was bad. This was — terrible, and here they were with no one else there to help, to tell her what to do, how to fix this. It had not crossed her mind in full that Silvertongue could die up until now; a whimsical, almost impossible fear now wedged into a grim reality.
What would Eshe have done? Or Arlette; what had she seen them do? Terror broils beneath her skin, inside her chest. Plants. She needed — plants, herbs, but what the fuck grows in the desert in November?
What was she going to do about that leg?