Destarin couldn't be far, now; gods, though, Tig was... tired. Or something like tired, at least.
Drained. The word for it surfaced slowly, bubbling up through the congealed murk his mind had been mired in since he woke in that ravine. He pushed it back under, ugly word that it was, and pushed off the mossy crop of stone he'd swayed into. On he went, staggering some, dizzy with the not-quite-dull ache in his belly and squinting in the high-summer sun dappling down through the trees. It couldn't be far. And there, in Destarin, this would be mended. Where better to break a curse, really! He was lucky, all things considered. Could've been leagues further from a solution. But Destarin was just through the next thicket. Or three.
Or... he'd lost count. Where did one thicket end and the next begin, anyway? With a raggedy sigh, Tig braced himself against the craggy trunk of a rather charming oak, really. Very nice. Great old thing. The sort it was only right to honour, so - spreading a cold, battered hand against the bark, he cleared his throat. (And again, followed by a swig of unsatisfying water from his canteen; he poured a little between the gnarled roots he was balanced on, too. Only considerate.) "Ah," Tig began. Shook his head. "Thank you. For the - shade. That's... very much appreciated, yes. I'll stay a moment, if you don't mind?" He asked aloud, as if the oak might answer; the great tree simply stood, quiet as every god he'd tried to chat with, lately. The flat of his palm clapped to his chest - just as quiet, heartless - and lifted up, passing whatever blessings he had to give to those branches. Then he turned, sinking down to sit with his bony back to the trunk. Just, just for a moment.
@dryad-rowan