It began in a Pagan village near Bohn. In those days, The City was just beginning but Bohn was on the rise. Technology was booming and the advent of indoor plumbing was pulling people from the woods in droves, leaving only the most devout Pagans still reliant solely upon the land. They had high hopes of their god, The Trickster, returning in time to stop the "out of control" industrial revolution.
This particular village, Woodbyrne, was close enough to the city as to feel the true burn of development. Wood was being cut from the edge of their forest at such a constant rate that the sounds of men and axes grew closer every day.
"These evil manfools," they would say. "Burnses they so much wood for their metal fires. Haves they no concepts of what they use!"
At one end of the village, furthest in from the path of destruction set forth by the people of Bohn, there was a single hut of grass. There lived a childless couple, and with no prospects of continuing their line, they feared not the technological revolution.
"Gones we befores the city comesies here," said the husband, Greentree. His wife, Honeyfern, was in complete agreement but she spoke up little since the general pain of childlessness was a terrible burden upon her. While the men hunted, she had to watch as her peers fed and washed their children, taught them the ways of the woods and showed them how to fend for nature, all the while Honeyfern sat alone and waited for Greentree to return with just enough food for the two.
"Was not my faults!" a little boy cried out from across the stream. Honeyfern was stooped at the water to do the washing. This boy was named Foxhorn and he was almost eight years old. His face was bright red and tears ran down his cheeks. A small, dirty finger pointed to a patch of peppers, wilted in an unusual manner.
"Saids me to waters them!" His mother scolded, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him inside their hut. "You hurtsies the green leaves, Woodsie Lord never comes now!"
The boy wailed from within, likely as his mother beat him. Honeyfern rung out a tunic for Greentree and sighed to herself. Had she children, she would not beat them, even if they had failed to tend the plants. Those peppers, however, did not look dead from under-watering.

The following few days, everyone noticed their crops wilting in the same way as Foxhorn's peppers. The leaves would grey, curl up and dry out. With good reason, the village was thrown into pandemonium.
"Why does the Tricksy one do this to us?!"
"Haves we hurtsies him?"
"No!"
One voice erupted through the panic. It was Greentree.
"We has done no wrongses," he said. "Times of all, me and Honeyfern thinks that the city manfools will takeses years to hurt us, but thinks me they are behinds this!"
The Pagans were visibly shaken. Foxhorn rubbed a bruise on his arm and frowned, looking towards the remains of his peppers.
"Makes you no sense," said another male. "How can you change the minds so quickly?"
There came yet another sudden interruption, this of a gentler kind; a seed rattle which belonged to the village Shaman, Twilightmoon. She was beyond old by Pagan standards and rarely made appearances. Most of her time was spent in her stone hut, placed a ways beyond the village. She would scrye into stones, study the stars, burn herbs and of course kept track of which sorts of sacrifices were due. Most of her declarations, warnings and material transactions were done by her apprentice, Silverfoot, who would take Twilightmoon's place when she inevitably passed.
But the Shaman's appearance was quite timely. An issue such as plant life dying most certainly warranted her address. Silverfoot, young and thin with light hair in an efficient bun atop her head, stood by Twilightmoon to held keep the old woman balanced.
"Says Greentree the truth," she croaked, heavily wrinkled eyes hidden beneath a cloak. Only her mouth and knobby hands could be seen, moving slowly with her words. "Hammer fools rots our green grass, poisons our dirts. Mold. A plague."
"What can wes to do?" a young woman asked.
"Sees me no actions," said Twilightmoon, "But sees me the grass healings."
That was all the Shaman said before she turned and left with Silverfoot, giving the Pagans plenty of time to wonder how that could be possible. A few of them looked at Greentree as if it were his fault, but Honeyfern found that to be a useless waste of emotion.
"Hates them for we helps not our village," she said angrily once they were in the seclusion of their hut. Greentree sat down on their primitive bed and peeled off his shirt. "Hates them for bad reasons."
"Relax you, my loves," said Greentree.
"Oh, why are we seedless?" Honeyfern sighed bitterly.
"Has we no children for reasons, I'm sure. Comes you now, to bed."
Reluctantly, Honeyfern sat beside her husband and rested her head upon his shoulder.
"Hears you the Shaman's good word. Grasses will healings and we to eat the sweet foods again. Worries not. Sleep us now, my loves."

Honeyfern was terribly sad the next day. She had difficulties getting started on her chores, seeing little purpose to taking care of just the two of them. There was also mild hostility with the rest of the villages for reasons she found completely ridiculous, so she decided to continue her clothes washing further down the stream, near the tall grasses. They, too, were starting to wilt. She knelt beside them a touched a few graying blades with gentle, sad fingers.
"Sees she the grass healings," she whispered to the plant, in the hopes that it would at least give slight encouragement. Unexpectedly, the grass spoke back! There came a small whimper within.
"Says you whats?!" Honeyfern gasped, moving backward slightly from shock.
"Neehh!" it cried once more.
It did not sound human yet it had enough of a voice to be animal. Slow and careful, Honeyfern separated the grass and peered through. There, crawling amongst the shrubbery toward her, was a little, pale green baby. She had a tiny tuft of light hair on her head and deep green eyes that gazed at Honeyfern with amazement.
"By the Leafsie One!" the woman gasped. A smile grew on her face. "How dids a baby come here?"
She reached out and picked up the infant, who happily took to her.
"Ah, but this skins…no humans, you are."
Delighted to be holding a child, human or not, hers or not, she smiled brightly and returned to the village. This of course got the immediate attention of everyone.
"Finds you a baby?!"
"Looksies, the skin! What greens is that?"
Honeyfern's smile grew and grew. The baby was pleased as well.
"Finds me this baby in the grass."
"A child of the green grasses!" a woman cooed. "A gift from the Woodsie One! Honeyfern, he blesses you with a baby!"
And that was how Honeyfern and Greentree became parents. It took some time to accustom themselves with raising the child, especially since she was not ordinary in anyway. The child would crawl around with a kind smile, wide green eyes gazing upon everyone and everything with great love.
As she made her way around the village center, she caught sight of Foxhorn's collapsed peppers. The baby pushed herself enough that she could stand, and to everyone's amazement, walked straight to the plant and began gesturing ornately. A bright glow came from the base of the brittle stem, as did a similar light surround her hands, and the plant instantly came back to life.
"The green grasses comes back!"

They called the baby Little Oak. Once Twilightmoon heard of her appearance, she said that Little Oak was a dryad, or forest spirit from the trees and not the grass. Her origin was unknown to Twilightmoon, but purpose obvious. Soon, all of the greenery in their village was restored if not better. Little Oak loved to tend the plants, and as she grew, so did the plant life in the village.
Little Oak grew faster than a human. By the time she was ten years old, she was already taller than the rest of the villagers and had a body that was taking a curvaceous form. Her skin, once a tender light green, slowly grew deeper and thickened like a delicate bark. Her light hair grew out dark and straight, lightweight and easy to care for. Her voice was sweet and she loved all of the villagers, especially Greentree and Honeyfern. They loved Little Oak more than life itself. There was no better blessing in the world. They raised her to be strong, caring, and incredibly fearless.
She would walk out into the stream, leaping from rock to rock like a frog. Courage was her strongest virtue. No height of tree, no predator nor harsh weather frightened her. Often times she begged to see Bohn, but nobody let her go that far. They said it was unsafe. It was not a place for her kind. And that was alright, for she decided it was best if she stayed anyway. She saw herself as a guardian of the village, as did the Pagans. Even Twilightmoon knelt before her the best she could. Little Oak was, after all, a spirit of nature and though she was not their god, she was more powerful and pure than they were. Nobody knew how old dryads lived, but they wanted Little Oak to be their protector forever.

Things did not remain so. One night, there came a heavy presence into the village. The Pagans all awoke at the deep sounds and looked through their doors, their windows at a mysterious figure that passed through between the houses. His feet were as horses, hooves striking loudly. A long, scaled tail was dragged behind him. Most knew what he was, but none uttered the name as they questioned their sanity, only soft whispers of indeterminate words. The air in the village had grown thick and earthy, like a peat bog.
"Where bes my dryad?" a deep, growling voice came from the figure. "WHERE BES MY DRYAD?"
Little Oak, who was anything but timid, came forth from Greentree and Honeyfern's house, standing proudly before the shadowy figure. He eyed her wild green eyes, her woody flesh and supple curves.
"Ah, there you bes," he said, kneeling down near the little green nymph. This creature's face was almost human with deep set lines and horns upon his head, stern eyes that possibly tried to look kind. "Knows you who I am, my child?"
"Bes you must the Woodsie Lord," she said, smirking.
"Then this village has raised you wells. Time to leave."
"...what?"
Little Oak's face fell blank. She looked back at the house a few times. Greentree and Honeyfern poked their heads out.
"Time to leave," the Trickster repeated. "I brings you to life when this village neededs your help. Nows, the evil city to the south no longer poisons the grounds. Your times here is gone. Now, you are to serves me in my Woodsie land!"
Little Oak was less than pleased. She knew nothing but her people in the village and the love of her adoptive parents. But when she looked back to them, sad as they may be, they gestured for her to go ahead.
"Says you your goodbyes," the Trickster said, pointing to the couple. "Brings you back heres never again."
Little Oak, holding back tears of sap, ran to the house and flung her arms around Honeyfern. "I don't wants to leaves you!"
"But understands we," Honeyfern said calmly, patting the dryad's back. "He is our god. You are ofs the trees. This is not a place for you to liveses your green leaf life."
Little Oak looked to Greentree, who nodded in agreement.
"Misses you of course," he said, "But happies will you be. And always loves you us."
"Always loves you us," Honeyfern repeated.
"Always loves me you," said Little Oak. She gave one last embrace before leaving with the Trickster, never to see the village or her parents again.