Gorjuzblon

At the heart of the forest, there lives a nymph. Not the kind of nymph you might know from the fairy tales – no slender, young thing, with soft, green hair, sparkling eyes and limbs like young trees. Her hair is green, in fact, but it‘s damp and matted, like moss growing on fallen trees. Her eyes are dark and deep, like the pond beneath the willows, that hasn‘t seen sunlight in decades now. Her skin is wrinkled and gnarly, her limbs bent and wry, like the old oak at the centre of the forest, the oak she has seen grow from an acorn. Back then, when the forest was young, the nymph was young herself, singing and dancing in the meadows, her eyes bright and full of the sunlight shining through the light canopy. She hasn‘t danced in a long time now. Still, her stride is strong and sure – she might be old, but not frail. During the day, she wanders the forest, slowly, carefully, as if not to disturb it, although she could never disturb the forest – the forest knows her, as she knows the