The dryad of the greenwood liked to leave her tree sometimes and wander the forest. She loved to stretch down deep into the ground, and talk to other trees through their twining roots, and their susurrations of leaves and branches, but sometimes she got the urge to wander.

She was a witch of the woods, and that meant her cauldron was a giant hollowed tree stump. Sometimes when she tired of stirring and blending, mixing and concocting, she’d perch on its edge and wait for unsuspecting travelers to do a double take when they see her there, her dress and hat blending in with the forest around her no matter the season.

No one ever asked him for his name. They would never inquire after his health or wonder how he was faring that day. Faeries, after all, had no patience for such human niceties, as ephemeral and meaningless as air. “How are you?” “Fine” as exchanged by two strangers had about as much substance as aether.