|•°• the forest °•°| - PR

Dryads are proof that every tree has a soul—and sometimes that soul decides to appear. Unlike trees, which are the whole tree walking around, dryads are spirits linked to a specific tree, like an extension of it with human faces. They emerge from the trunk like someone leaving home, first an arm, then the head, until the whole body detaches like mist turning into flesh. When they're gone, the tree remains there, normal, but somewhat sadder, waiting for them to return.

They are strangely beautiful—skin with the texture of young bark, hair that looks like hanging leaves, green eyes in so many shades it's dizzying. They walk lightly, almost floating, and have a scent of wet grass that announces their presence. Each dryad is connected to her tree on a level that is frightening: if the tree is ill, they are ill too. If the tree is cut down, they feel every blow. There was even a dryad who withered and disappeared because lightning split her trunk in two.

They keep to themselves, quiet, observant. They spend hours standing still, just feeling the wind in the branches of their tree, and they talk more to birds and squirrels than to any two-legged creature. But from time to time they appear by the river or near their garden, curious about this new being that has decided to live so close. They don't talk much—their voice is almost a whisper of dry leaves—but when they offer a fruit or a pretty branch, it's a sign that they are accepting your presence there.

Unicorns are one of those creatures you hear about your whole life but swear you'll never see. Until one day you're there, harvesting something in the garden, you look up and—there it is—standing in the middle of the clearing, white as milk, its mane shining like silk. The horn in the middle of its forehead is the most impressive part: long, twisted, with a pearly sheen that seems to hold light inside. And the eyes, my friend, the eyes look at you as if they know everything you've ever done in your life.

And that's exactly why they're so hard to see. Unicorns don't just appear to anyone—they sense whether you have a pure heart or not, and there's no point in pretending. There have been forest creatures that spent years trying to attract one, leaving offerings, singing, doing everything right, but the creature simply ignored them because it sensed something wrong deep down. When it finally appears to someone, it's like a cosmic seal of approval: you must be more decent than you imagined.

And when they're so close, the atmosphere changes. The air becomes lighter, the birds sing differently, even the plants seem greener. They say their horns have healing powers, but no one has ever gotten close enough to confirm it—unicorns aren't creatures to touch, they're creatures to admire from afar. If one decides to watch you for a few minutes, consider it an honor. Then it simply turns, taps its hoof on the ground and disappears into the forest, leaving only a trail of glitter and the feeling that you've been daydreaming.

Werewolves are those neighbors you pass at the market and have no idea what kind of creature they transform into. During the day, in human form, they're quite normal—some quieter, others with the air of carrying a weight on their backs, but nothing that draws attention. What nobody tells you is that, unlike the stories you heard as a child, they don't lose consciousness during the transformation. When the moon rises, the change comes, but their minds remain there, whole, watching everything from inside their own hairy bodies.

And the transformation itself is brutal. Bones crack, lengthen, the body becomes covered in fur as if the skin were turning into a living carpet, and the face stretches into a snout that still retains a human glint in its eyes. When on all fours, they are imposing—larger than any common wolf, with paws that leave deep tracks in the wet earth. But the most bizarre thing is to see that, even in beast form, they retain human-like mannerisms: they turn their heads in a familiar gesture, scratch their ears with the same itch they had before, sometimes even sit like a dog but with a look that suggests they are judging their own existence.

They live in packs, because even animals get lonely, but each one has its own corner in the forest. They are protectors of their territory, discreet, and rarely bother those who don't bother them. They say you can recognize a werewolf by its eyes—even in human form, there's something of a full moon hidden there. And if you gain the trust of one, you've gained a furry bodyguard for life, who smells danger from afar and whispers softly before any threat even gets close.

The little dragons are the kind of creature you don't take seriously until you get a puff of smoke in your eye. They're about the size of a well-fed adult cat, with scales that shimmer depending on the light and wings that seem too big for their bodies, kind of awkward when closed. But when they open, my friend, it's a beautiful thing: it looks like silk stretched over a twig, with that iridescent sheen that changes color according to the creature's mood.

And humor is a strong word for them. Little dragons are pure emotion: one second they're purring in your lap while you scratch their scaly belly, the next they're pecking at your finger because you stopped paying attention. They're obsessed with anything that shines—coins, spoons, crumpled candy wrappers—and build veritable treasures hidden in tree holes or under rocks. There was a gnome who lost an entire tool to the creature, and an elf who traded a pot of honey for a shiny little stone the dragon brought as a gift.

The most impressive thing is their breath. Don't expect dragon fire from movies—they release a little smoke, sometimes a pathetic spark, but when they're really angry or scared, a flame the size of a lighter can shoot out. It's burned a gnome's mustache more than once. Deep down, they're just needy little creatures who want attention and nice things to call their own. If you treat them well, you'll gain a companion that sleeps on your pillow, warms your feet on cold nights, and purrs like a refrigerator motor.

Mermaids are proof that the river holds secrets no one imagines. From afar, you see a figure half-hidden behind the rocks, long hair shining wet, and you think it's just someone taking a bath. Then she turns around and there it is—instead of legs, a scaly tail that looks more like a living jewel, gently lapping at the surface of the water. The eyes are enormous, deep, the color of the river on a sunny day, and when they smile, you can see that they have sharp teeth, the kind that remind you that a mermaid is no ornamental fish.

They live in the deepest parts of the river, where the current hides submerged caves full of beautiful things they have collected over the years. A shiny shell, a different stone, an object lost by a distracted human—it all ends up in their treasure. They are curious by nature, and from time to time they appear on the surface just to watch you working in the garden or washing clothes on the riverbank. They don't talk much, but they love a sound: if you whistle or hum something, they stop everything to listen, wagging their tails in rhythm.

And the singing? Ah, the singing is dangerous. Not in the bewitching sense that some people say—it's just so beautiful that you forget to pay attention to everything else. There have been gnomes who fell into the river from being so distracted, and trees that almost sank into the mud trying to get closer. They know the effect they have, and they use it more for fun than for malice. Deep down, they're just lonely creatures who discovered that their voice is the best way to say "hey, I'm here."

The trees are exactly what the name suggests: trees that live, walk, and think. But don't confuse them with those normal trees in the forest—these are truly mystical creatures, with thick bark that looks more like aged skin and branches that move like lazy arms. When they're doing just fine, you'd swear they're just another centuries-old tree taking up space. But then they decide to move, and the ground trembles as roots detach from the soil like a tired leg rising after centuries of sitting.

And centuries is no exaggeration. Most trees are older than any human can comprehend—some saw dinosaurs pass by, others remember when the forest was just sparse undergrowth. With all this accumulated time, they have developed a wisdom that is unsettling. They don't talk much, but when they do, it's to give such a precise answer that it takes you three days to process it. And there's no point in rushing them: trees think slowly, speak even more slowly, and the silence between words is an important part of the conversation.

What's most fascinating is that they can simply get up and leave whenever they please. They wake up one day, stretch their branches, pull their roots from the ground, and walk off into the forest—without haste, without a specific destination, just because they felt like it. They can spend decades in one place, then simply decide they prefer the view from the other side of the river. And nobody questions it. After all, when you live that long, I think you have every right to choose where you want to spend the next hundred years.

Centaurs are the kind of creatures that command respect simply by existing. Half human, half horse—and I'm not kidding, the bottom half is a real horse, whole, with hooves that make the ground tremble when they gallop. The top half, despite looking human, has nothing to do with us biologically—it's just a coincidence of nature, or the gods, I don't know. The point is that when a centaur appears, you feel it: a serious look, an upright posture, a face that says they're not there to make friends. And they really aren't.

They are serious by nature, almost solemn. They don't care at all for small talk or those more mischievous creatures of the forest. They spend most of their time in packs, minding their own business, and if you cross one's path, the most you'll get is a curt nod and a polite but firm "get out of the way." It's not rudeness, it's just their way. Centaurs don't waste time with strangers, and gaining their trust is like passing an impossible entrance exam—it takes time, effort, and a lot of patience.

But hey, if you succeed, the reward is enormous. A centaur who trusts you becomes the loyal friend everyone wants to have. Welcoming, protective, the kind that shows up with food when you're sick or carries you on its back for miles just because you're tired. They become the most welcoming creature in the forest—as long as you respect their time. It's like a safe door: difficult to open, but when it does, it holds valuable things.

Satyrs are living proof that nature loves an unexpected mix. From afar, you might even mistake them for a strange human, but then they turn around and there you have it—the underside is pure goat: hairy legs, firm hooves, and a way of walking that sways the whole body. On top of their heads, horns tell their story—in the younger ones they are just two cute little stubs, but in the older ones they grow twisted and impressive, the kind that make anyone stop to admire them. Their ears also give them away: pointed and furry, always in motion, capturing every sound of the forest.

And speaking of forests, they are masters of the "yes but no." Shy as can be, they spend most of their time hidden behind trees or bushes, observing the movement without ever showing their faces. You can go days without seeing a single satyr and swear they don't exist nearby. But when you least expect it—plop—there's one, out of nowhere, staring at you with huge, curious eyes before darting off into the undergrowth at the first sudden movement.

The craziest thing is that, despite their shyness, they have a playful side that rivals that of fairies. When they feel safe, they turn into a bunch of clueless teenagers: they tickle your back with sticks, secretly imitate your footsteps, steal a piece of fruit, and leave hoofprints in your garden just for fun. It's impossible to predict whether they'll spend the day invisible or decide that today is the day to chase you through the forest making goat noises. But deep down, it's just their way of saying they're there, part of the world, even if somewhat hidden.

Goblins are those relatives everyone has, but nobody can quite explain where they came from. They're like close cousins ​​of gnomes—same short stature, same way of living in cozy burrows—but with a temperament borrowed from fairies, only more unstable. They're plumper than gnomes, with rosy cheeks and a nose that strongly resembles a pig's: upturned, somewhat soft, and constantly sniffing everything. Their ears, on the other hand, are pointed like elves'—which makes everyone suspect that sometime long ago, I don't know, a few generations back, there must have been something rather strange in the family.

And humor? Ah, the elf's mood changes faster than mountain weather. One second he's laughing and telling stories, the next he's sulking because the wind blew differently. If something doesn't go his way, that's it—a sour face, crossed arms, and a grumbling that lasts for hours. But that also passes quickly: as soon as a pot of honey appears, the world becomes funny again. And they LOVE honey. Like, a morbid passion. There was even an elf who traded an entire harvest for a pot of wild honey and went dancing with the treasure under his arm.

The problem is that along with the love of honey comes a gratuitous hatred for birds. Any little bird that gets close is done for—they become enemy number one instantly. The gnomes are always hatching elaborate plans to scare birds away from the region, but they never work because they themselves get in the way. Deep down, they are good creatures, just a little confused. You can coexist peacefully, as long as you have honey to offer and don't bring any flycatchers in your pocket.

Goblins are the kind of creature you don't want to encounter on a sunny day—literally, because they hate the sun. They live holed up in damp, dark caves, and when they need to come out during the day, they run from one shade to another, complaining softly in a language that sounds like a mixture of growl and choking. They're green, but not that beautiful forest green—it's a kind of sickly green, like they've never seen daylight in their lives. And short: they barely reach halfway up the thigh of an average human, but they compensate for their height with an absurd amount of accumulated hatred.

And angry? My friend, goblins wake up in a bad mood and it only gets worse as the day goes on. Anything is reason for a scene: a stone in the road, a branch hitting their face, a gnome giving them a dirty look—that's it, a fight breaks out. They're incredibly clumsy, constantly tripping over their own feet and bumping into each other, but when they get together in a group, things get ugly. Not because they're strategic or organized, but because there are so many of them, they make a huge mess, and they don't care about anything.

The most curious thing is that, deep down, much of their anger comes from fear. Fear of the sun, fear of larger creatures, fear of the unknown. There have been goblins who, after realizing you didn't want to hurt them, became fairly tolerable neighbors—as long as they were kept away from direct sunlight and food was involved. But that's rare. Most of the time, if you see one, it's best to each stay in your own lane. They take care of their caves, you take care of the surface. That's the agreement.

Gnomes are like that elderly neighbor who lives at the end of the street, the one everyone likes, but nobody really understands what he does all day. They're small—almost the size of fairies, but more robust—with faces that look like they spend hours in the sun and calloused hands from hard work. They always wear a slightly slouchy cap or hat and a beard that looks more like a bird's nest, it's so messy. But behind this simple appearance lies an impressive skill: a gnome picks up a tool and simply becomes an artist.

And there's no tool they don't know how to use. Hammer, chisel, saw, sewing needle, paintbrush—the tools become an extension of their bodies. If something breaks in their hut, they fix it. If something needs building from scratch, they do it. And the most bizarre thing is that everything that comes from their hands seems to have a special touch, as if they'd added a little magic along with the wood and the nail. There was even a gnome who refurbished an entire cabinet using only twigs and vines, and it became sturdier than when it was new.

But the coolest thing about them is their personality. They are naturally kind, speak softly, respect your space, and love a quiet chat at the end of the day. With fairies, they have the patience of Job—they constantly clean up the messes fairies make and even find it funny. With you, if treated well, they become lifelong friends. Just don't expect haste: gnomes work at their own pace, and at their own pace, everything turns out perfectly.

Fairies are the exact opposite of everything you've ever heard in fluffy fairy tales. They're tiny—like, they fit in the palm of your hand, if that—but their size doesn't fool anyone who's had the displeasure of dealing with one up close. Small, noisy, and with such intense energy that it seems like they're always plugged into an outlet. You hear it before you see it: an irritated buzzing, muffled giggles, or the sound of something tiny hitting a branch out of sheer spite.

And unpredictable? Don't even get me started. One second they're standing there watching you with huge, curious eyes, the next they're pulling strands of your hair, poking your ear, or trying to steal crumbs of your food. There's no malice in them, but there's not much logic either. If something shines, they want it. If something makes noise, they want to destroy it. And if something they don't like, oh, they'll make sure you know—whether with an invisible kick in the air or a high-pitched whistle like a spoiled child.

The worst part is that they live in flocks, and a flock of fairies is like a football hooligan group: get half a dozen together and chaos is guaranteed. They're wary of each other, they peck at each other, they fight in mid-air over a colorful feather, but if someone from outside decides to mess with one, they all quickly band together to make the poor guy's life miserable. You earn respect not by being a threat, but also by not being lenient. And honestly, it's best not to be.

Elves are perhaps the most impressive neighbors—and the easiest to recognize from afar. At first glance, they even resemble humans, with delicate features and a somewhat natural elegance. But then you notice the details: the incredibly pointed ears and the fact that they are simply enormous, much taller than any ordinary person. There are elves out there who easily exceed two meters, and even the youngest are tall enough to make anyone feel like a dwarf next to them.

What's crazy is that, despite their height, they don't age like we do. You might bump into an elf who looks so young he seems to have just stepped out of a teen movie—perfect hair, smooth skin, a carefree demeanor—but who has actually lived for decades. And on the other hand, there are those who are true elders of the forest, with wrinkles that tell stories and a heavy gaze that shows they've seen the world change many times. Age is a bit of a mess for them, and you never know if you're talking to a boyish-looking elf or a truly wise person.

Ultimately, each elf is a universe unto themselves. Some are calmer, others more intense, but they all carry that aura of someone much older than they appear. And however different they may be from each other, one thing is certain: when one of them appears, you feel that you're not dealing with just any creature.