“You just knitted your hair into that scarf you’re working on,” the owl said as it landed. Sitting high in the oak tree, the dryad started and swore royally.

“SWEET PINECONES I DID!” the dryad shouted without looking up. Slipping on her perch, she fell about half way to the ground before catching herself.

The dryad struggled with her half-complete moss scarf, knitting bag, and huge needles. Within a few moments, the simple knot had become an ever-tightening web.

“Do you want help?”

“No.” the dryad grumbled petulantly.

“I don’t see how you’re going to get down.”

“I will find,” she spat through her hair as it conspired to gag her, “a way.”

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