Wandering for days in the dark forest, stalked by weird creatures lurking in the leafy shadows, you reach into your pack and find your hardtack Elvish rations are all depleted. Your party is already lean from the long campaign, and it has been too long since you enjoyed the warmth of a tavern hearth and a hearty mutton stew.
Your ranger rummages through his component pouch and produces a sprig of mistletoe. His fingers trace intricate patterns in the air, and you see his dry lips muttering in an ancient language you couldn't hope to comprehend. He closes his fist and turns it upwards. As he stretches out his fingers, you see your salvation in the palm of his hand—ten small berries.
