Intense discomfort and great annoyance with her predicament, feeling like a tortoise flipped onto its back in her helplessness, gives way to a creeping panic that steadily picks up speed- an avalanche threatening to swallow her whole, never to be heard from again. As the encroaching storm steals away the sun, casting infinite night, the shadows that grew from the trees from before begin to reach for her again in a relentless pursuit. Quiet fingers swarming her, their greed for her as heaven for the damned.

Thisisabsolutelytheworstthing THAT COULD BE HAPPENING TO ME RIGHT NOW.

A reluctant effort to haul herself up results in little more than a half-roll and a pained, inelegant grunt. The shadows, they were at her feet now, and up close they looked like a cloud of squirming locusts, thousands of tiny alien faces anxious to strip the flesh from her bones.

This is what you wanted, right? To escape reality.
NOPE. NOT RIGHT NOW. REALITY IS GOOD.

She steals herself with a deep intake of breath- juxtaposed to the vast End only she bore witness too, the air still smells of dewy moss and the salmon pink azaleas she passed none too long ago. It grounds her senses just enough that another scent tumbles into the mix- something, someone, very much like her, although slightly different, but in no way she could name, particularly in a state about to slip into stupor. It had been so long since she had picked up anything like it, save a headless fly-blown corpse of a pegasus several miles back. She'd never seen someone opened up like that, and the stark contrast to the finality of death and a pleasant spring day jarred her, made her feel something queasy deep in her stomach. The faint, friendly nicker in the distance gave her a very similar feeling.

No, no. THIS is the worst. Gods, not right now, lady...

Sheer willpower encourages her to attempt standing once more, and this time she succeeds, grinding her teeth together against the pain of her left wing- drooping toward the ground as it were, her whole body shaking like that of an unsteady newborn. Stretching out the healthy frustratingly-functional right wing carefully, she works the joint before tucking the limb neatly into her side. Her focus on finding the source of the call draws her attention away from the illusions; it isn't long before Brisa comes into view, Imonada's gaze drawn like a magnet to the ghostly apparition. Narrow onyx eyes widen just a fraction, taking in the startling sight. This angelic mare before her, talking to her -Imonada isn't listening-, and the one thing that unfurls in her mind is her family's myths about the messengers of the gods.

She swallows thickly, swaying like a reed in the breeze, black eyes too-bright from delirium, as if trying to find her voice.

"Imonada," she says quietly, her faint rolling burr marking her as foreign. Exhausted from her travels, the withdrawal, and the tumble, she finds no argument in Brisa's offer. It does not seem she pays heed to the equine's slight discomfort; indeed, she blurts out her next words. "Can you get rid of pain?" With that, she begins noticing it again and sighs.