Tell me a sappy story?
(How about sappy in both senses, because I can never resist a pun?)
“Hello,” said the dryad, venturing forth from the cluster of trees dotted along the slope. Her skin was silver-brown, her tangled hair was a soft blue-green, and her long fingers were cupped as if holding something precious.
“Hello,” replied the oread, toes at the edge of her cliff. Her skin was the sun-warmed tan of rock, her hair was streaked through with red, and very rarely did she speak with nymphs of other kinds.
The dryad’s hands flowered open to reveal nestled between then a precious seed.
“I would like my son to grow where he may know the wine-dark sea,” she said, her wine-dark eyes black and bright. “Would you show me where his roots would find firm soil to grip, that wind could not rip him free?”