Meridwyn knelt in the grass at the edge of the clearing and placed her palm flat against the earth. She held her staff parallel to the ground, it’s nearly-white wood a few shades darker than her lily hands. She stood up, turning to face the others, and removed her face covering and hood. She spoke in her own language, Sylvan, which she knew the others could translate well enough. Why cater to the needs of greedy city-dwellers?

“The band of trolls is moving northward, quickly, without stopping. The trees and their dryads are anxious, and the pools nearby shelter nymphs who fear for their lives.” She turned back to the woods, peering into the serene shadow, deep green with moss and lichen. She had no choice but to talk to the fey. “You should stay here.” She murmured in poetic Sylvan, “You could be blinded by the nymph’s beauty, and we can’t afford to lose any more warriors.” She gestured limply to the wounded Alfor, a human who’d been shot in the leg.

She stepped softly into the forest, alone and unfettered.