The fields with the strawberries are not particularly hard to find. She makes a note of them, then perches as a blackbird in a nearby tree. She'd wanted to leave the city to renew her spells anyway - it's not impossible to do inside one, just unpleasant - and this makes the whole trip very efficient. Get new spells, use one for something that might even be helpful, leave to go be in the stupid argument building. Voshrelka has had a lot of time to get good at being efficient, in her years.

She sits in her tree and reaches out to systematically re-scaffold her desired array of druidic spells. With it comes the peaceful reassurance of the hum of life, all around her, connected by branch connecting branch connecting animal to bug to bird (and so forth) all the way back to her home. All of everything that has ever walked on Golarion, all weaving this gigantic and insane living tapestry of theirs. She doesn't have anything against farms, really. They're kind of strangely regimented, and incredibly unbalanced, like a pyramid perched precariously on its point, but they're alive. Birds and rodents and insects and plants and mushrooms and people and everything else, all alive, all connected, all touching each other in various ways and making larger ripples in an even larger world. Little things leading to other little things that lead to big things until the world is lit in song and thought and color, all around everyone, everywhere.

It's just what happens to what came before the farms that she has a problem with. It can be difficult to witness, especially with familiarity to create the contrast. In many ways, it's much nicer to be here than back home in the Barrowood. She's glad they moved the capital back to Westcrown. She probably still would have been crazy enough to attend this stupid convention if it were still Egorian, but it would have been worse than being here. There's a difference between reaching out to touch earth whose scars have had time to heal and something more fresh. Like, well, the lands around Egorian.

The woods that were cut down, despite all promises of staying their axes and the dutiful circuits of Plant Growth, to eventually become it. The dryads hunted and slain, for the precious and rare wood with highly magical properties that their soul-trees are made of. The once great Winter Grove, the greatest and oldest center of druidic power in Cheliax, reduced to a dead and blackened husk. Promises made, promises broken, and now, just two centuries after the horrors they have wrought, they will all claim that none of them are responsible. And here she is, anyway. To dance this dance once again, to extract the same promises and wonder when they'll be broken, to beg for restitution from people that will all say, 'Oh, but, it wasn't my fault.'

She hates it all, but she'll do it all the same. It doesn't matter whose fault it is. The scars are there regardless. All these fragile mortals can do is but try to see that they heal well, and are covered with new, better growth.

Eventually, she finishes her meditations and re-connections. Mindful of her looming deadline, she checks the sun in the sky. Hm. She probably can manage to make it back in time, even if she walked. It'd be more efficient if she just cast the spell as a blackbird and then left, but, well. She thinks she has time for some dramatics. It would be proper to remind these people of what a druid is, before she goes to speak on their behalf.