Shary Nefzen

Shary sat in a secluded glade, thin fingers of sunlight piercing the thick shadows. She sat huddled under the canopy of the willow, her arms around her knees. She spoke quietly to the tree next to her. Not that it would have anything to say, but it listened well. Even if it did speak, willows often told you only what you wanted to hear.

“I wanted him to be my music”, Shary sighed. “He was for three days, but then the spell broke”

The tree answered the only way it could, by arching gently in the breeze, its leaves rustling to the tune of the wind.

“He even had a big pack, and much gold, and a ship”

“Greedy whore”, a tiny voice spoke from nearby. Shary turned when her audience expanded from the willow to the small pixie who sat on the flower.

“Oh be quiet Lilybeth. What do you know of music? Real music”, Shary replied.

“I know that’s it’s not made of dead, used up humans. Were you really Shary, your music would be dead now. Shary’s gone. A human tricked her”, Lilybeth said kicking her tiny feet absently.

“I am Shary now”, Shary retorted. “She was part of me, and now I am she”.

Lilybeth tisked, “No, you only look like her. She was a part of you so you are almost her. But you are not her. You should have stayed a tree. It was certainly more noble than being whore. All Dryads are whores.”

Lilybeth turned on her flower, her antenna perking up and narrowed her eyes, “What would have happened had you been Shary? What would have happened to this sailor with his pack and his ships and his gold, hmmm?”

“He would be my music”, Shary said defensively.

“Hmph”, Lilybeth snorted, “His spirit would be part of your tree, and his body would feed it. How many human bones lay under your roots when you and Shary were one, hmmm?”

Shary said nothing. A bee hummed next to the flower next to Lilybeth, who shooed it away by poking it gently with a long spear.

“I just want music”, Myrhha said with a small voice, a tear meandering its way down her cheek.

“No”, Lilybeth replied a little softer, “You want love. The problem is that trees don’t know love. They only know contentment. Dryads don’t know love either. They only want their music. You’ve been without it for so many centuries you don’t know what it is any more.”

Lilybeth fluttered her wing and hovered in front of Shary’s face, “You should go back to being a tree. It’s what you were best at. It suited you. It was noble. Your countless children honor you”, she said, waving to the forest around her.

“I don’t have the power to change back”, Shary’s tearful silver eyes focusing on the pixie, “It could take centuries”.

“Then you should find love. It’s as good as music…better sometimes”, Lilybeth said, scooping up one of Shary’s tears in a tiny flask.

“Hey! What are you doing?”, Shary waved, shooing the pixie away.

“Dryad’s tears….powerful magic”, Lilybeth winked, and poofed away in shower of twinkles.

“Hmph”, Shary retorted.

Wounded and bleeding, Shary huddled in a corner of the cliff side, wings folded at her side. The battle raged around her, filling her senses with blood, fear, and pain. Magic flew from fantastic machines. The people that surrounded her, some she called friend, fought and shouted as they were being forced to retreat. Someone ran by and touched her, filling her with warmth, closing some of her wounds.

In the middle of the chaos rode a horseman amongst the N’Jast troops. He stood tall and terrible in the saddle, his armor a symbol of tyranny and fear. In abstract wonder, Shary wondered why no one shot at him. He remained oddly untouchable.

With a flutter of wings she carefully crept to the edge of the cliff and watched in abstract fascination. Who was he that rode so carefree? Wouldn’t it be grand if she could slay this great horseman of N’Jast! All her friends would think she was truly fierce then. Perhaps her Fey sight allowed her, and only her to see him. Perhaps it was her destiny to kill this man.

Shifting form, Shary became Dryad again, armed with bow and arrow. She put several special arrows she had been saving into the ground in front of her, nocked one, took aim at this horseman, and fired. The first arrow fell short, by the horse’s feet.

She took better aim this time, and fired again. The next one stuck lopsidedly through his armor. Even at this distance, Shary could see surprise in his eyes. Now ranged, she fired again.

The arrow flew and buried itself deep in his shoulder. Scowling, the horseman retreated. Shary grinned a vicious grin, and led her target.

She didn’t really feel the pain, only a sense of giddiness. The crossbow quarrel stuck from her chest, the barest end of the fletching visible as the point protruded from her back. She turned and wobbled feebly, her legs no longer supporting her weight, and collapsed lifelessly in the snow.

…and somewhere in the Silver Marches, a tree died.