Already a bit slower in movement than the younger tree-spirits, the drywood dryad has lived a long time. Time and seasons, sun and weather have taken their toll and sometimes she contemplates digging her roots deep and letting her mind wander until she forgets all but the sun on her skin and the slow pulse of earth in her veins.
It’s the flickering little specks of life that keep her awake, the fluttering sparks of energy, the visible, tangible, present parts of the cycle. Their calls for a mate, their dance that lasts less than a blink for a dryad, the ability to feel so keenly never ceases to intrigue her.
She has watched and marveled at their ancestors, and the ancestors of those ancestors. They awaken a steady sensation of curiosity in her: curiosity and empathy. How dreadful it must be to feel so acutely, how dreadful yet so wonderful. She knows she can never fully comprehend them, but she never lets that stop her from caring. Or watching, always watching: the guardian of brief, full lives of woodland creatures.
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