Illyrianthe the Dryad
Beneath the towering white oak stood a woman who seemed woven from the forest itself. Her hair, long and intricately braided, carried the deep, rich hue of wet bark after rain. Her skin bore a faint luster, pale but touched with the texture of smoothed woodgrain, and her eyes glimmered a mournful green—like sunlight caught beneath deep river water.
She held the shape of a Galldar elf: slender, poised, and graceful, yet there was something about her that no mortal lineage could quite contain. Each movement stirred the air with the scent of sap and wildflower pollen, and when her fingers brushed a branch or blade of grass, the plants seemed to lean closer, as though remembering her care.
Her beauty was quiet and sorrowful, the kind that made even hardened hearts ache. The song she sang drifted through the grove like a ghost wind at dusk—soft, full of longing, and heavy with centuries of memory.
She held the shape of a Galldar elf: slender, poised, and graceful, yet there was something about her that no mortal lineage could quite contain. Each movement stirred the air with the scent of sap and wildflower pollen, and when her fingers brushed a branch or blade of grass, the plants seemed to lean closer, as though remembering her care.
Her beauty was quiet and sorrowful, the kind that made even hardened hearts ache. The song she sang drifted through the grove like a ghost wind at dusk—soft, full of longing, and heavy with centuries of memory.
Children
Comments