Dryads are the murmuring multitude of the forest, grown from soulpods in numbers no glade bothers to count. In peace they are nearly indistinguishable from the trees they tend, and travelers may cross an entire wargrove without seeing anything but branches. In war, the branches move. Dryads encircle their prey in whispering rings, talons flickering out of the gloom until nothing remains of the despoiler but scattered iron and a lesson.
Their temperament is the forest's own: generous in fat seasons, savage in lean ones, and never entirely predictable. Those who come to the woods with respect may find paths opened and clean water shown. Those who come with fire and saw hear the dryads' keening rise around them — a sound the free peoples have learned to run from, though running rarely helps.
Order of battle
