There exists a nature spirit. Dryad, nymph, whatever name men would foist upon her, she is what and who she is all the same.

  At st the burnt nd around her has grown back enough for her to live and move and sing once more. Nevermind the grey-brown scars on her verdant skin, the brittleness to the leaves of her hair, nor the fact that the pupil of one of her gold-orange eyes is now human-like instead of a nocturnal hunter’s predatory slit. The point is she’s here for you to see and to hear her sing.

  Smiling, she bursts into a catchy number celebrating and extolling the virtues of various fruits and vegetables. To any that might have heard her wordless melodies of old the spectacle would feel deeply and profoundly wrong. Even to any casual observer - or at least one not too charmed by the novel beauty of it all to pay attention or too willfully ignorant to listen - the message beneath the surface of the vapidly upbeat lyrics quickly becomes clear.

  This is the song she is forced to sing by the produce company that razed her forest and pnted more “useful” and “productive” crops in its pce. Her grove is now a cage of twisted foreign trees pnted unnaturally close together and specially bred for holding those like her. She is begging you, begging anyone, to let her out. All while smiling a smile that she can’t help but make.

  She knows that she has been reduced to little more than a tourist attraction, a mascot. And a battery. She cannot do otherwise but to help the green things around her grow. The longer she stays here the more bountiful the harvests, the greater the profits produced, and the tighter the bars on her prison.