The clearing is quiet and calm, as the croaking of frogs and chittering of insects, echoes through the grotto. The verdant wood is green and lush, the thickets blooming with violet and vibrant hues, as the moon casts its dim light through the leaves above. The dryad rests beneath the boughs of the oak, leaning her head against its thick, splintered mass. “I hear your breath little sapling, smell your fear.” She pauses, gaze roving to the source of the disturbance, “why do you hide?”