You take the welcome opportunity given by a rest stop to sit down by a large tree, leaning back 
in a hollow made between its roots and closing your eyes. Curiously after some moments you can 
just make out the sound of someone laughing, a woman by the tone. You concentrate on the sound, 
ignoring the rest of the patrol completely.

You smile contentedly, listening to the sound of your love's voice, her laughter that only you 
can hear. From up here, nestled within her embrace, it would be so easy to forget the troubles 
of the world. Well, except for all the loud-voiced acolytes and other occasional distractions. 
Sometimes you hear them joking about you being married to your tree, given the way you've forsaken 
female company; you glance down at the ring on your finger, a wooden band decorated with an acorn 
carved from one of her fallen branches, and you smile to yourself. They don't realise how right 
they are...

Almost as if summoned by your thoughts, one of the loud-voiced acolytes appears beneath the branches 
of your tree. "Um, Archdruid Quercus? Druid Squirrel has sent me to tell you there's some lumberjacks 
at the edge of the forest who don't want to go away, and could you come and convince them that they 
do?"

You sigh, your peaceful contemplation at an end. You stroke your tree fondly; the branch you're 
sitting on quivers then slowly starts bending towards the ground until getting down is merely a 
matter of strolling along to its end. You pat the branch again as you climb off, murmuring a fond 
farewell; taking a moment to straighten both robe and beard, you stride off in the direction of 
the lumberjacks taking your directions from the whispering trees, the acolyte scurrying behind you 
in an attempt to keep up.

It's strange you think, once you would have sided with the lumberjacks, an opportunity for profit, 
or even just to slight nature. How foolish you were before the trees granted you enlightenment; so 
wrapped up in material gain and personal power. The weapons you carried replaced with a simple staff, 
the restrictive armour gone, the power of nature having taken its place, and all those consecrated 
items forsaken for a simple ring and all it represents.

The whispers of the trees turn into quiet laughter at the acolyte; you laugh with them, and his 
confusion only makes them laugh harder. Walking around a bush you suddenly find yourself beardless 
and back with the patrol.