Birch had the sudden, slightly unsettling feeling that she was no longer alone in this strange realm; she inhaled slowly, letting the air escape from her lungs just as slowly. Weightless, weaponless, she felt more exposed and vulnerable than she could recall in... ages. A small frown formed on her face as she surveyed the pooling, gently swirling mists. Were they just going to leave her to stew, then? She opened her mouth, considering another - slightly louder - call into the abyss when something - a sound, a feeling, a... something - drew her attention over her left shoulder. She turned cautiously, resisting the urge to drift back into the mist a few steps for cover (she was dead, she reminded herself sternly, what more could possibly go wrong?).

And then the mists parted, drifted reluctantly away from a figure. Her breath caught in her throat for half a second, hopes dashed before she'd dared to give them life. There were, after all, more than a few differences between her bulky Nordic husband and the lean figure of... Mallos?! Birch gaped, dumbfounded, as the Shaman god appeared before her, all... Mallosy and wonderfully, confusingly alive. He shoved his hands into his pockets, grunting out his typical greeting. Birch blinked, torn between punching him and hugging him; it was good to see some things never changed. Going with the strongest instinct, Birch cleared the distance in a few quick strides to thunk against his chest, giving him a tight squeeze before releasing him; for someone as stoic as Birch it was practically a flood of affection. She stepped back, brushing absently at the thin coating of dust that had transferred from his familiar dark clothing to the traditional Fyren wrap dress she hadn't realized she was wearing; better than being naked, she supposed. Birch's subtle grin shifted to something akin to concern as she studied her old... Mallos. Was it just her or was he thinner than before? And for that matter, what was he doing here of all places?

"As a doornail, last I checked. But you're not," Birch said it as a statement, just barely resisting the urge to tack on a concerned right? Instead she added a gruff "You look like hell." and wrinkled her nose as if in disapproval, brushing more dust off his shoulder.