Stillness.

    Stillness was all the hamadryad felt when she left her rugged, but young oak tree. Whilst an assortment of randomly-sized rocks and brown-capped mushrooms lied on the grassy floor, orange-hued sunlight of dawn pierced through the musty clouds and into the thick cluster of branches littering the forest's canopy. Beautiful, peaceful stillness. That stillness continued for a good few minutes, allowing her to savor it with a deep inhalation of the fresh, late spring air, followed by a silent sigh. She turned to her other self, and the shorter-than-usual, vine-and-moss-covered plant remained motionless where it was next to the enormous boulder that played a key part in its somewhat stunted growth. The crack-esque slit that had parted in the tree's wide trunk and allowed the fae creature to emerge soon sealed up, and it looked normal and undisturbed once more. 

    The hamadryad looked like a wild and unkempt, but also somehow refined and elegant young woman. Her youthful face and left arm possessed a smooth, pale-green hide one would easily mistake for skin, but such a presumption wasn't the case. The blood that ran through her dark, exposed veins was chlorophyll, the trail of oak leaves and moss that made up the large, regal, concealing 'dress' that hung far from her chest and dragged across the forest floor below was part of her own body, and the long, flowing, pale hair that fell behind her shoulders was tangled and tied with vines, broken twigs, and pointed branches that protruded from her otherwise skinny and feminine form. The surface of her right arm was seemingly consumed by a thick layer of hardened, gray-brown bark not unlike that of the tree she originated from, and large patches of leafy and shrubby grey lichen seemed to grow at random around her entire wiry frame; a small bundle coming along healthily along one of her side cheeks, just below the eye being a prime example.

    The wood-nymph's name was Herne. What it meant in the human tongue was 'Great Hunter', and she earned the title well, as seen by the bow of gnarled wood that she constantly carried in her left hand. Her arrows - nothing more than long, straight branches bearing sharpened tips and lined with bird feathers collected from those that had fallen from the molting avians - hung from a quiver made of woven grass by her side.

    Finishing her morning routine of admiring her forest, Herne finally began to move forward at a pace that slowly picked up until she was but a blur of green in the tree-filled landscape, and her bare feet silently crunched over the dry leaves that sat like stones on the dirt ground. Scrambling around large rocks and vaulting over fallen logs that tumbled to the earth in terrible storms of the distant past, Herne passed by briar patches, birch trees, other oak trees that weren't her own, and a great many other things in her haste to reach her destination of choice. And as she moved at such a supernatural speed, her left hand remained clutching her bow tightly, never letting go of it for but a single moment, even as she rounded a final, familiar bend, and came upon the sight of what she was running to see. Her favorite spot in this entire world. Her greatest treasure.

    It was a glade. A large, open area that sat in the middle of the forest like a wondrous oasis in a desert. It was a place of unabashed beauty and splendor, with long grass that flowed in the wind covering the ground like a blanket, the only other thing sharing the flat spaciousness being groups of many-colored flowers of every kind the nymph loved. Herne dashed over to each bunch she saw and inhaled their heavenly smells with an ecstatic expression painted over her face, illuminated by the sun's rays, which shone down in the most magnificent fashion through the treetops above. As she continued to advance through the field and the buzzing of bees and other insects that happened to fly past her as though she were a ghost, another shape soon came into her view a short distance off from where she stood.

    There, in the middle of the glade, grazing on the long grass that made it up, stood the elegant form of a large male red deer. His fur, once a more brighter shade of brownish-red, was now fairly more dull with age, and his wondrous antlers appeared to be growing quite long this season so far. As the nymph approached the creature with as much sound in her step as a field mouse scurrying through the underbrush, and with as much speed to rival the fleet-footed fox chasing it, the deer eventually caught notice of her quick movement from the corner of its musty sight. The buck lifted his large head lazily to meet her face as it suddenly pressed against his in a small, intimate headbutt of sorts, both of her own glowing, chartreuse-tinted eyes staring into his large brown ones like a lively ember setting fire to a pile of sticks.

    Shifting the bow into her right, coarse, bark-laden grasp for the moment, she petted the creature on the bridge of his snout with a loving hand, and the beast let out a happy snort of thanks in return, blowing warm air from his nostrils into her face, which pulled back from his own in slight recoil. Chuckling lightly, Herne brushed her long fingers over his shaggy fur once more, then decided to depart from him as briefly as she appeared; vanishing to the edge of the glade like a passing gust of smiling wind. After witnessing her leaving him be, the deer moved his head around for a moment, as though trying to spot where she had gone, before returning it to the grass below when he saw nothing.

    But Herne still did not fully leave him. Currently, the woodland spirit had clambered onto a high-hanging branch of a horse chestnut tree that overlooked the entire area, and lied on it like a bed as she continued to watch what lovely sights went on in the glade. This was how she spent most her days, and she wouldn't have had it any other way than just letting them be like this. To let the peace, stillness and natural order of nature reign was the only thing she ever asked for, and it was what she got now. The sound of the birds overhead singing out their chirping songs and tittering tunes gradually began to take their toll on the hamadryad's relaxed mind, and Herne could feel herself begin to doze off under their shifting melodies like a red squirrel in the midst of warm, carefree summertime. One leg and the gown of leaves concealing it hung from the edge of the branch loosely, almost fully blending in with it, and her bow currently sat idly in her lap as her eyelids fluttered.

    â€‹Yes, she may be a hunter with great experience when using a bow, but never did she actually hunt any game, for she had no urge to take another creature's life, nor care to devour its sustaining flesh and meat. What she did care for was her home. Her section of the forest. Her glade. If any creature of violence or wanton destruction and vice dared to transgress upon her grove; the culprit typically tending to be a lumbering troll, ever-gluttonous ogre, or thrice-damned human, she wouldn't hesitate to cock an arrow into her bow's notch and end the wretch's life with a single shot to their most vulnerable spot. Nature would take care of the rest.

    Indeed though, things were very tranquil that morning, and the peace lasted for a fair time. But soon, Herne's eyelids flashed open as she came to the realization that the birds had suddenly ceased their singing. Sitting up on her branch in confusion, she looked out into the glade just in time to see the deer raising its head in alarm as an unfamiliar stench caught its nose. His ears perked up and moved about for a second or two, but sensing that all was not well, he turned himself around and began to hurriedly trot away through the tall grass. Thoroughly perplexed by this panicked behavior, Herne hopped from her perch to the ground below in a quick and precise maneuver. Once her bare feet silently touched the floor of the forest, she made sure her bow was out and ready, and started to slink around for what might have caused such a disturbance.

    â€‹She ventured far and wide for the next several minutes, even taking a wiff of the air in her efforts to find out what was lurking around, which she noticed now bore a more alien, musky smell; nothing like what she had ever experienced before in her woods. After walking in front of a large bush that blocked her view of what lied behind it, she carefully pushed its leaves back and peeked her head through. Then, to her visible shock and disgust, she saw him.

    There, walking through the thick brush of the forest without a care in the world, and wearing one of the brightest purple outfits Herne would swear she had ever seen, was a human. The strikingly violet outfit he was clad in had a silky and slightly fanciful visage to it, with long leggings and poofy shoulders. The man himself had light peach skin, a well-groomed mustache under his short nose, and possessed a wide-brimmed hat of the same color as his clothing over his brown-haired head. And from the back of it, a single black-and-white turkey feather pointed through.

    He also was carrying something. Hoisted over his shoulder was a large brown purse of sorts, nearly as wide as his body. His point-tipped shoes continued to crunch trough the long grass until he came upon a willow tree with drooping branches and leaves not twenty feet from where the fae being knelt. Looking out into the glade as Herne observed him, she watched as he exhaled a deep breath and put on a smile. Carefully setting his pack to the ground, he sat down underneath the shade of the willow and pulled what was clearly a large book out from the satchel, followed by a white feather pen and an inkwell.

    Herne felt curiosity come over her when she watched him set the inkwell to the ground on the side and pull the cork out of it. After thoroughly dipping his pen into the black substance held within, he looked out into the glade for a good minute before looking down to his book, then started to draw something on its page. He did nothing to yet warrant her ire and peacefully sat there for a small time, the only noise to accompany him being the scratching noises from the pen-on-paper.

    But a human was still a human. Still capable of destructive feats that were utterly unwanted here. Next thing he would probably do is come back and knock down a tree for lumber, or perhaps hunt the game in this area for mere sport. The thought of this just possibly occurring enraged the hamadryad and burned away her curiosity to ash, arousing her to fury in spite of her tranquil face she kept. Plucking out a single, straight arrow from her quiver and putting it upon the rest of her bow, she lifted it up and pointed it at the man as his pen still scribbled around; the feather of it swinging to and fro.

    Herne took one last curled-lipped look of pure contempt at the being before pulling the string back. By now the clouds above had parted fully, revealing the yellow sun as a cool breeze passed by, loudly rattling the leaves in the trees surrounding the nymph, yet her aim was unimpeded. With one eye closed she focused her deadly aim and prepared to send the missile streaking into his neck. Just before she could loose the arrow, a disturbance on the human came about, causing her to relent on her would-be execution of him. It appeared as though something small was bulging underneath the purple cloth of his chest, then traveled up to his arm, and along his sleeve. It finally came to a stop when it reached the cuff, and the white-furred head of a small, weasel-esque creature then emerged from it, popping out like a budding flower.

    It was a ferret. While the human still sketched whatever it was he was working onto the paper, the small being crawled around his body as though it were its own little play area. Occasionally it would scurry to the man's shoulder, point its whiskered, pink nose into his ear and squeak a few times. As if in response, the man turned from his work to the creature and smiled before whispering something to it. The ferret soon after left from there and continued its exploration of its master's thin frame, before eventually jumping to the ground and landing its white form swiftly onto the green grass.

    To say that this human and its pet didn't intrigue nor surprise her would have been a lie. To see him possess a pet like that, so lively, energetic, and loving was a kindly sight she never thought to see. Watching as the creature frolicked and played around mirthfully in the grass put Herne off from wanting to kill the interloping man as she had planned, and her tense muscles began to relax soon after, along with her sneer.

    And so with reluctance in her silent movement, she retracted the bowstring and put the arrow back into her quiver. Quietly sighing before taking a final look at the man who had yet to notice her, she turned away and vanished back into the woodland, leaving him alone with his work and pet.