Being the druidic envoy of the Barrowood in Westcrown is exactly as miserable an experience as Voshrelka expected it to be. She's unfortunately also gotten better at it, which means she'll likely be here for the rest of her long life, if her archmage based scheme doesn't explode in an archdivorce or cataclysm. It is therefore important to think long term, for the sake of the her in a couple decades that will have to live with the choices the her in the present made.

Voshrelka mostly doesn't like people. This extends to nearly everyone, especially children, but is particularly notable and potentially debilitating when pointed at the nobility. They're the biggest threat to what she's dedicated her life towards. Their real purpose in civilization is as guardians and monster hunters, in charge of an area, killing anything that might threaten their tax revenue, and jostling to burn down the woods so they have more land to watch over, like that'll fix any of their problems. They are the ones she really needs to win over, long term. She needs to see that the ones that are to her interests succeed over the ones that are not.

The civil folk think that when druids talk about balance it's about everything being perfectly in tune and eternally stable, but that's not how ecosystems work. They're in constant flux, a struggle for survival among all inhabitants. The job of the druid is not to somehow do the impossible and freeze this natural process, but instead to place their proverbial fingers on the scales, and tip things in favor of what would be best for the ecosystem. The ways of a country are a strange system she'll never fully understand, but she can see the parallels.

So, if the nobility of Cheliax are like flora to be cultivated, then she will act accordingly.

There are very few nobles that she ever came anywhere close to liking. This is a trait that should be cultivated in the nobility of Cheliax, for the sake of Voshrelka in particular. She keeps tabs on the state of the few she actually likes, like she once kept tabs on how the priests of Asmodeus were doing to look for ways she could sabotage them. It's much easier when you can just send letters out in the normal postage system.

She hears of Aniol Reixach's death. He is the first of the soul-sold nobility to have died that Voshrelka has a mildly positive opinion of. His body has been given to the Abadarans, which makes things very straightforward, if aggravating. She makes several dozen more stacks of paper than she otherwise would, sells them, pays the Abadarans for the corpse, and requests from one of the other druids (who is not trapped in a city) to please fetch the necessary herbs for a reincarnation that she'd requested be prepared.

(That she manages to pull it all off in the space of the few days left before this spell becomes impossible is an impressive feat of logistical competence and foresight, and it's yet another reason why she's going to be stuck in this city for the rest of her life.)

What's left of Aniol Reixach is buried in some magic mud, doused in extremely expensive oils made of rare herbs that are an absolute bitch to grow, and left to grow into a new body for his soul to inhabit.

Voshrelka is thoughtful enough to remove the mud covering the face by the time the body is ready for the soul's return.

The Abadarans aren't actually usually in the business of selling corpses just because they happen to be storing those corpses. It's a little like trying to buy the contents of a safe deposit box. They ask his daughter, since she's the name on record as the person to contact if anything should become of the plot or should anyone be seeking the release of the remains for scrying/resurrecting/turning into a skeleton/whatever; and she says that if the druid wants his body for druid reasons that seems fine, throw a plant growth at the beets and carrots over there if you have the time, Lady Druid.

Aniol opens his eyes.

Sure, sure, she'll be a good druid and do the plant growth. She knows how it goes. (When in doubt: offer to cast Plant Growth. It was true during the convention, and is true now.)

He has been partially buried beneath a great tree, and there is a silver haired elf he might recognize that's sitting nearby. She's got a small writing board, and is penning something. (It's a bestiary that she's working on. So that people can maybe not accidentally kill sapients in the future.)

"Hello," says Voshrelka, without looking up.

He feels... weird... and not in a "just got eaten by a tyrannosaur" way, either...

"Hello," he croaks. His teeth feel weird. He lost one in a dustup with some orcs a while ago and it's there, or at least a tooth is there, but not at all the same one. "What's, ah, what's going on?"

"You died. I did a druidic ritual to undo that. You were planning to take Archhealer Naima's reincarnation before your death of old age, yes? Congratulations, you no longer need to do that anytime soon. Well. I suppose unless you hate your form."

"What exactly am I?" he asks, wiggling - failing to wiggle - in the mud. "I'm not sure I - huh are those wings -"

Voshrelka then looks up from her writing, to squint at him.

"... Itarii," she pronounces, after a thoughtful pause. "Or - strix, as I think they're still more commonly known. They are wings, and they will carry you, with practice."

"Well, that's - pretty good, then, isn't it. Am I supposed to... stay in the mud for my health at this point?"

"It is, yes, but it would be crass to tell you that you were fortunate if you actually preferred death, and I'm attempting to be more diplomatic these days, so. No, it was for growing your new body. You can safely leave it."

He starts wiggling more earnestly in the mud, wings and all. "I most certainly did not prefer death. I was debating with myself on a daily basis if it was time to retire to the lakehouse so as to not die, but didn't win the argument in time."

The mud comes loose easily enough.

"Well. You're welcome, then. Would you like me to fetch you a set of clothes, or scandalize Westcrown?"

"We're in Westcrown? I could do with a set of pants but will probably need instructions on how to get a shirt on, considering."

"Yes. The druid embassy in Westcrown. It'd be a robe instead of pants, the spare clothes kept here are meant for wildly differing shapes." She'll need to rip out some stitching on the back, but druids are druids, and so they did have foresight to account for suddenly wings in the tailoring choices.

She puts away her papers and writing implements, and then heads up... into the tree... which has a house in it... that she then disappears into. She comes back out with a robe, carefully unpicking the seams that hold the wing-holes closed.

He gets mud off himself as best he can and slips the robe on. Out pop the wings. He finds the way they move fascinating and keeps bending them around to watch them do it so he can learn to interpret the proprioception. "Did... someone pay you for... this? I wouldn't have expected anyone to want to."

She helps him put on the robe, and leaves him to it once he's got a good hang of how all of his limbs work.

"No. I actually had to pay the Abadarans and then your daughter for your corpse."

"...well, I'd offer to pay you back but if they had time to bury me they probably had time to execute my will. I still may be able to, but it'll take me a while to get a loan and buy a decent bow with it and collect on some monster bounties. If that is an acceptable way of paying you back, I never did quite figure out your stance on monster-hunting."

"I did not do this on the expectation I'd be paid back. You can borrow my longbow for a while, if you'd like, I'm unlikely to use it anytime soon. My stance on monster-hunting is that creatures kill each other for all sorts of reasons all the time."

"That's very kind of you, I wonder if learning to shoot from the air is as impossible as learning to do it from horseback...

"...why did you decide to reincarnate me?"

She pulls her bow out of her haversack, and hands it over. There are leaves still attached to it, and they're growing healthily.

"You are the first soul-sold noble individual that has died that I have felt any inclination at all to reincarnate. I do not particularly want the nobility of Cheliax to be made up entirely of people I despise who have managed to avoid getting themselves killed. This was both a test and an attempt to be kind to myself in several decades. The bow will need to be dampened and put in contact with fertile soil once a week, and watered. If you let my bow die I will be irritated with you, it's harder to persuade dryads to help with making its like, these days."

He touches one of the leaves, lets it bend a little and spring free. "Plant and water once a week, got it. Did you need something from my son, is he making a nuisance of himself? I haven't been running Juncosa since somewhat before I died."

"No. I haven't met him, or been to Juncosa recently. I have achieved my goal, do as you'd like. Perhaps tell everyone that you were saved from Hell by a druid, and that the soul-sold can be reincarnated after death, I might be able to leverage it somehow in the future."

He smiles. (The teeth are so weird. The wings are weird in a dreamlike, fanciful way; the teeth are just weird.) "What year is it? How're things shaking out with respect to whether I'm married still, or anything like that?"

"Still 4717; I accomplished this the same week you died. I've no idea how civilization is going to handle a post-death reincarnation. I'd appreciate you writing to me after to tell me how it goes."

"Addressed to 'druid embassy, Westcrown'?"

Nod. "Or 'the tree house, Westcrown' I hear the post has also accepted that as a viable address," says Voshrelka, dryly. "Or variations thereof."

"It's very distinctive. The tree looks a lot older than it being 4717 implies."

"It's the work of several of us over weeks; it can hold third circle spells, now." Obviously, Plant Growth is in there, because it is what civilization cares about most. Then, realizing he doesn't have context, she adds: ".... Druids can record our spell scaffolding into trees, like wizards and books. The tree is practical, along with being distinctive."

"Huh! I suppose that stands to reason." He tests the draw of the bow. "Could I trouble you for some arrows?"

"Certainly."

She actually gets him a bag with a modest starting adventurer's kit, because she has learned at least one lesson from Lisandro, and has well and truly resigned herself to her fate. It contains a bedroll, a week of (elven) rations, a canteen, a healer's kit, a knife, fishing line and hook, flint and steel, and rope. She adds six dozen arrows, then after a moment's thought, a potion of Cure Light Wounds.

"There you are. Acceptable starter kit if all of civilization has abandoned you?"

He inspects the contents. "I should be able to bag a few suppers and something toothy enough to earn my way with this. And then I can get started on proclaiming your deeds to those who'll be interested. I gather from the obvious tree in the middle of Westcrown that it's fine if my old - constituency - knows where to find you. If you need soul-sold fifth-circle wizards anxious for your good graces for anything."

Nod. "It would be welcome, but is not required. Enjoy your second life."

He gives her a deep grateful bow. "If that is all you ask in exchange for it, how can I do otherwise?"

And then he attempts to take off, fails at this miserably, and, abashed, walks off instead.

Voshrelka is thankfully not the sort of elf who laughs anymore. She inclines her head, and returns to her work. She makes a note to herself that she's going to have to replenish the starter adventurer kit, and returns to penning the bestiary.