Diadria
Diadria has watched over the Mooncrest Woods for more than a century, though her appearance would fool most into thinking her newly grown. Her skin carries the hue of fresh moss, and her hair falls like willow branches caught in a breeze. When she stands still, even seasoned hunters mistake her for part of the forest.
Those who stray into the Mooncrest uninvited often find the forest strangely alive around them—branches bending to point a path, roots shifting to trip the unkind, fruit ripening in moments for those in need. These quiet acts are Diadria’s doing. To her, the forest is not a home but an extension of herself; every trunk, every vine, every leaf is bound to her pulse.
When a tree is felled within her reach, she feels it like a blade drawn across her own skin. Few who live near Oakton forget this truth, for the woods grow restless when their keeper grieves.