Aimil peered down at the prisoners: intruders, all of them, on her land, her home. When the humans had first come to her land, she had been curious: intrigued by their behavior, their stumbling attempts to build homes and survive.

With time, she had come to loathe them and see them for the insects they were. They had burned her woods, hunted the animals, pursued the weaker fae that had only been curious about the newcomers.

She would need to think of a suitable punishment for their crimes: perhaps she'd turn them all to animals, and let them loose to be hunted by their kin. Death was too good for them, too good for the latest batch of hunters that had pressed into the heart of the wood with their horrible weapons and the burning metal gifted to them by the God of War.

She stopped before the leader of their band: a human, clothed in leather armor, battered and bruised, twisted in the roots Aimil had entangled them in.

Perhaps she'd let them set their own punishment. Let them think they could decide, then twist it into something that would make her laugh.

"What do you say for yourself?" Aimil demanded. "Speak, now, or perish."