Fairly flying across the grass with joy, the nymph stops dead at the sight of the oak, a stately gentleman with wide branches and handsome roots. Not even the strange word interjected into Remylebeau's Greek can jar her attention from the majestic forest dweller.

Dropping to her knees, the dryade reaches a hand out beseechingly, asking the oak without words if his dryade is here.

A soft gasp falls from her lips when she learns she is not, and never has been. Still with her hand outstretched, she looks up at her guide.

"He says there are no dryades here," she whispers. "Is that so?"