To say an odd sensation overtook him was to put it lightly. The little carving-filled hallway melted away and morphed into the thick greenery of the Kishahn, but not before a lurching feeling bubbled up in the pit of his stomach and he felt as though he'd been turned inside out.
But suddenly he felt the humidity bear down upon the back of his neck. Slowly, he opened his eyes to a familiar sight: trees stretching a hundred feet up, a lush canopy roofed overhead, vines of all shapes and textures crisscrossing like string. A warbler's cry echoed in the distance, followed by a hundred other animal calls.
He was back.
Though she'd stood, he remained kneeling in awe. A sunburned hand reached down and dug into the soil, likely untouched by man for thousands of years. As the dirt crumbled through his fingers, a colorful bug skittered off his knuckles and into the brush.
"By the spirits," he breathed, looking up at her wide-eyed, "you actually did it."