It's a nice enough morning for a woodland stroll. Last night's frost left the leaves pleasantly crunchy underfoot, though they'll turn to a slippery once the sun melts it away. She'd worry for Trevor, halfway up a tree in the overnight cold, if she didn't know 1) he'd had plenty of ale to warm him and 2) his cloak's as good as snuggling up to a sheepdog.
Sypha tucks her own hood tighter around her neck, but leaves it down so she can listen. She follows the road out of town, stopping now and then to investigate tracks at its churned-up edges. Her role is Scholar, not Hunter, but no nomad grows up wholly ignorant of trailsign. A cluster of waist-high alder saplings shows signs of recent damage, and it's as she stoops to inspect them that the hum reaches her ears.
"Aha!" lifting her sleeves away from grabby branches, she hops into the brush and follows the sound. At first it's only a tune, the melody all tumbled together like riverwater. The closer she gets, the easier it is to pick out notes, to gain an appreciation for the song, to discern words.
She finds the singing tree a stone's throw from the road. Figures: Drunk Trevor wouldn't have staggered too far in the dark. Sypha elbows past a bush and presses her hands to the tree's bark, squinting up through the branches.
"Good morning," she beams, "It seems I've treed a dryad!"
if the mood was 'trashfire dumpsterman' then you succeeded with aplomb
Sypha tucks her own hood tighter around her neck, but leaves it down so she can listen. She follows the road out of town, stopping now and then to investigate tracks at its churned-up edges. Her role is Scholar, not Hunter, but no nomad grows up wholly ignorant of trailsign. A cluster of waist-high alder saplings shows signs of recent damage, and it's as she stoops to inspect them that the hum reaches her ears.
"Aha!" lifting her sleeves away from grabby branches, she hops into the brush and follows the sound. At first it's only a tune, the melody all tumbled together like riverwater. The closer she gets, the easier it is to pick out notes, to gain an appreciation for the song, to discern words.
She finds the singing tree a stone's throw from the road. Figures: Drunk Trevor wouldn't have staggered too far in the dark. Sypha elbows past a bush and presses her hands to the tree's bark, squinting up through the branches.
"Good morning," she beams, "It seems I've treed a dryad!"