“Welcome home, young Eliaea.” The sylvan wonder greets as a femenine shape with a flesh of bark emerges from the trunk of an ancient tree. “You’re the first to return home in a long while,” the dryad continues, “a reunion that should delight The Keeper.” I silently reciprocate her greeting with a graceful bow - an antiquated formality, but delivered with the same love as a gleeful hug. Wooden arches and twisted trunks look to be little more than empty forest to those who’ve lost the magic of the old world; to elven eyes, winding space between the flowers and the trees mark a sacred path to a forgotten glade, a pilgrimage to sanctuary.