Another series of sleepless nights. Another countless mountain of remedies distributed where they're needed most. Another day ends, and the little Rakash hunches over her tools, happy at least to have something to occupy her hands and thoughts. Her eyes drift to the sleeping form of Saragos, and she winces at the fatigue written on his face even while sleeping.

She scrubs her wild hair from her eyes and scans the instructions for yet another batch of remedies, but her glazed eyes barely register the words as she continues to focus on her other task, the one no one sees. She pulls another massive amount of holy power into the streams circling her, and forces it into the scorched stones, the crumbling mortar, the shattered beams of Arhat's Tower.

It has to be anchored here, in this Plane. Wrapped around and through this physical structure, like seaweed anchors itself to a stone at the bottom of the ocean. In her mind's-eye she can see the energy, twined about the physical structure like some immense fig tree slowly growing over the ruined tower, ephemeral roots of golden energy digging into the Elemental fissures and planar vertices lingering from historic disasters.

But the important part... That's what she's layered, folded, shaped, and built in the spiritual space above and around the tower. A tree, a beacon, a lighthouse, a bridge, an anchor, a spear - whatever it is that she's been building for days is nearly finished. "Let it reach them," she prays. "Let it stretch far enough, and be strong enough. Let it be enough."

She knows the man sleeping in the corner wants her to stop, but she's not sure she can, anymore. She's poured mana into this structure for days upon days, and she has no idea how to let it lapse safely. This will work, because it must work. Without a bridge, there can be no returning, and no homecoming. And that is unacceptable.

Coil upon coil of holy mana piles upon itself in an immense lattice of energy, hoops of golden rings intertwined by glowing threads of will-worked magic. The half-dozen celestial beacons she cajoled from various enchanters are hidden throughout the ruined tower, and all around her looms the massive jade-mist form of her antinomic godling.

She scrubs grit from her eyes and squints through the twilight, watching the glittering motes fade as her spells fall away, leaving her vision mundane and drab. She draws a tiny bit of the mana to recast from the streams burning her from the inside out, pinching some remedies from her herbal case absentmindedly to address the trembling and numbness that seems to be constant companions now.

Her chapped lips move in a continuous whispered prayer, begging any God she thinks might be listening to bless the effort and guard the result. The exhausted cleric murmurs prayers to Enelne, to Meraud, to Tamsine, and to the godling that looms all around her. "Go, Sihmiauri. Find them. Find them and open the way back. Pierce the places they are and pull them out. Bring them home."

She leashes the antinomic being with the final threads of golden energy from her construct, and sends it stabbing through the Planes in a reckless hunt for the lost, then collapses against the half-wall behind her with a whoosh of air. It would work, because it had to work. She would make it work. Please, please work.