Forest. Splashes of color, the feel and scent of fresh earth. At first it brings a grin to the Shaman's face.
His first attempts at movement bring a different impression. Brambles litter the ground, hungrily pecking at any exposed flesh within reach. He picks his way cautiously to the nearest tree, although not without taking scratches. Stability. A massive root system, supporting a trunk jutting out from the ground. Overhead, branches support an array of succulent fruit, promising secrets long-forgotten while hanging mockingly out of reach.
That's when the second shock reaches him. A scent of fear on the wind. Animal calls filtering through the air, carrying agitation and urgency. A shift of the wind brings the smell of acrid smoke, and when the Thyrsus turns in the direction of the commotion, he is struck by the red glow of flame, leaping and spreading, consuming anything in its wake. Vines wither and die, quickly reduced to ashes. Trees stand firm, but fight a losing battle. Unlucky animals bleat in pain and desperation, before choking fumes silence their panicked cries.
A strangled cry of anguish and loss. It might have been a howl, if his throat were built for such. Everything that was here, threatened. How much would be lost, in a matter of minutes? What could he do to halt a hunter far more deadly than even the swiftest wolf?