Being a tree was... oddly comforting. Not the alarming, terrifying, unnatural arousal of her previous wounds. The embrace of the earth beneath her feet, no, her roots... it felt good. The warmth on her leaves, the heaviness of her hanging fruits...
It felt so right. A respite from the fear and worry that had plagued her ever since stepping foot in this blighted realm.
Only when Duran reached her and placed her hand, and she felt the magic again did she realize how wrong this was. That old fear, that terror that had seen her through the Wilds, kindled within her and she grabbed at it, following it back as her body changed, her legs parting, her roots retracting into her old feet, her branches withering away as she clutched her focus with her reshaped hand.
Stumbling with her newly regained balance she lifted her free hand towards the dryad and spat in Sylvan, "Blasphemous pretender, adorned in false mantle. Wither and rot and fade to dust."
It was an old dialect, and more than mere words.
(Naethra casts Hex against the dryad, hexing Charisma)
Still wobbling a bit, she lifts her focus and throws the familiar energy, the fear and wrath and power within her, into a lance of fey magic.
(Naethra casts Eldritch Blast: 18 + 2 + 3 = 23, Damage: (2) + 5 force damage + 3 (necrotic damage) = 10