Croi stumbles and grabs a low-lying branch of the tree, not even feeling the splinter that digs into the soft skin between her thumb and her forefinger. She is exhausted at this moment, tired of this world, tired of the hundred different shades of pain her body seems determined to learn, tired of it all. She slumps against the tree.

The air inside the clearing gets heavier, pressing against her skin, making it difficult to breathe. The vine squeezes her wrist tight, and Croi turns, trying to pull herself free. She glances at the tree, and what she sees has her forgetting the vine completely.

The surface of the tree trunk is rippling as though something alive underneath it is struggling to get out. Croi watches breathlessly as a face sculpted by golden strands of magick becomes outlined on the tree trunk. First to appear are thick lips, high cheekbones, large eyes that are closed, and a pointed chin. Then slender limbs push out of the tree, and with an audible pop, a body is birthed. This creature has the shape of a woman, but her face doesn’t know age the way human faces do. Her hair is dark and ropy, threaded with green tendrils, leaves, and vines. Her skin is the ashy gray of the tree trunk, and she’s clothed in linked leaves that reveal more than they hide. She smells green, like the forest around them, like the Hag Croi left behind.

The dryad opens her eyes; they are the same golden green as her leaves. She takes a deep breath and smiles widely. Sharp, pointy teeth give her smile a dangerous edge. They also alarm Croi. The dryad twirls around, once, and then again. She spreads her arms and embraces the air. Done, she turns to Croi and looks her over with an intensely curious gaze.

The tree creature is ablaze with a light that is the exact golden green that her eyes and the leaves of her tree are.

“Well, well, well.” The dryad lingers over each word. Her voice sounds like an afternoon breeze rustling the leaves of a poplar tree. She speaks Faerish. “I have caught a little maybe. A very strange little maybe.”

Caught things don’t last very long. Humans usually eat what they catch. Croi eats what she catches. And what does she mean by a “little maybe”? Croi decides that she does not like this kin.

The tree creature stares at Croi’s eyes a moment too long. Her smile slips, leaving her face cold and inhuman. Then she regains her equanimity and grace, moving in front of Croi, looking her up and down. “Whatever shall I do with you?”

She rubs her hands together with the same expression on her face that Croi makes when she sees a table full of food. Croi’s heart is a stone in the sea.

“What are you, little maybe?” The dryad comes nearer and sniffs the air around Croi, who hasn’t bathed for a while now. The smell should be ripe. Croi meets the dryad’s eyes, and the summoning spell falters under the tree creature’s regard. Her feet stop moving. The dryad’s face creases. “I’m trying to read your blood, but there is an obstruction.…”