They end up keeping her in their argument room for their entire damned convention. It is not quite the most miserable work of Voshrelka's very long life, but that is mostly because she is several hundred years old, and seventy of them were lived in Infernal Cheliax, not because she's having a particularly good time. Her days are spent trying to disentangle the knots of words and agendas and the true intentions behind the stupid arbitrary rules they're making up, and her evenings and early mornings are spent flying long, exhausting distances to see to the health of their crops, and then back again before it's time for the next floor session. She does not like people, she does not like politicking, she does not like nobility, she does not like cities, she does not like civilization. She does not like keeping her schedule so full, so predictable, so exhausting, both mentally and physically. Her contributions to debate on things she only vaguely understands are mostly acerbic, biting, impatient, and rude. Despite this, she's the most well liked druid in Westcrown. People begin recognizing her, and purposefully seek her out for her counsel over other available druids.

Admittedly she's made it very straightforward in her native form, with the leaves on her face, but still. Some people have even started treating common blackbirds well, for fear that one of them might be the resident reasonable-druid, which is somewhat gratifiying, even if she could very well be any other bird or beast and they would do well to remember it.

It's a month and a half into the convention when someone first tries to assassinate her. She's made it easy for them, really, following the old routes. Predictably, it's another druid. Some might term it as a betrayal, but Voshrelka isn't particularly surprised. She is, in many ways, empowering the beast that had partially devoured all they love, and so it's very reasonable for one of her own kind to try to kill her to make it stop. She kills them first, and then the great roc that was following its halfling master, with tricks learned over centuries and items won from a raided lich's lair and some very expensive arrows that she got on a certain wizard's recommendation. The roc's death wasn't technically necessary, but she's been playing dangerous enough with secrecy already. It is not wise to leave unnecessary loose ends, so she doesn't. The old elf drags the corpses into the woods to avoid any awkward questions from the peasantry. This is all the ceremony they get, before she's back to work. If she hates herself for what she's done, it's with the same bitter hatred that she hates the world, that it's come to this.

The arch-healer does, after relatively short deliberation, decide that some dead druids are worth dragging back to this miserable material plane, filled with broken people and ravaged wilds. Voshrelka spends a month juggling hunting down the remains of the dead she once knew, with knowledge and scrying and investigation and stubbornness, along with the argument room and the circuit of Plant Growths. She does not get very much rest, during that time. It is a hard pace, even for her, but she doesn't dare leave any of them dead for any longer than she absolutely must. If there is to be any kind of balance, between the wild and the civil, then the wild must get its shit together as soon as possible. She is all the Barrowood has fighting for it in this arena, and somehow she's begun fighting for the other woods of Cheliax with it, and so she will fight as she always have. To the bitter end, even as her body and spirit break under the strain.

Long cold remains of corpses are brought back to life, and though the Barrowood is hardly united after even such a feat, it does at least put some weight behind her words. There is a real momentum, to her archmage backed insanity, and many of the others become convinced that she hasn't entirely lost her mind.

It is decided that if the druids are to be properly part of Cheliax, they will need representation in the capital. A small, dirty, broken and unwanted parcel of land is legitimately bought, and an enclave is built. They grow a great tree, faster than any but druids could manage, and in it they build a small and modest house in the old style of the elves, building and tree intertwined together inextricably with wood shaping and forethought. The tree will hold the scaffolding of druidic spells, and the house will hold the druids or their animal companions, as necessary. A small bastion of green in a sea of brown and grey and bloody red. It is the only comfort she's likely to have for a very long while.

Because, of course, nearly everyone's agreed that she's the best candidate for envoy.

She does not know what the future holds, but she doubts it'll be a break.