You're in class when you first notice the soil. It's rich and dark at your feet– you must have dragged it in with you. You open your book and blink because the words are dripping down the page, a river of characters. There's an ache in your lungs and you can feel roots climbing through your throat– but then you're in a grove of trees with the Nemeton silent and waiting, a harbinger of what is to come. That's when you realize: this is a dream. And you need to wake up.