Thistle awoke to the sound of a rooster's crow. The familiar cockle-doodle-doo was a pleasant sound to her ears, unlike most people who would curse at the flamboyant bird from which the noise eminated.<br/>No, it was an alarm clock that the young nymph had grown fond of, waking her up at the perfect time each time. She didn't know how Reginald (the currently crowing avian in question) did it, but she always awoke refreshed and cheery to his sounds. If his call was ever absent, Thistle would awake in a foul state indeed. The wrath of a fatigued nymph is known well across the lands.<br/>Her name was not strictly Thistle, but Silybum. An atrocious name to humans perhaps, but a common name to nymphs. The wily creatures, due to their deep love of nature, named their children after the 'true' names of plants and animals, which is to say, the Latin. Silybum found both her true name and English name perfectly acceptable, but the true name was more personal, best spoken upon by friends. Such is the way of the fey-like creatures.<br/>She awoke in her usual posture on the bed, coiled in tightly upon herself, pillow held firmly in spindly, gold-tinted arms. She had, it seemed, retained the skin hues of her field nymph mother, and kept none of her forest nymph father's green underhue. Her fins, however, gave away her mixed breed plainly.<br/>The sheets were untangled, going over her head and staying in the standard position from when she had tucked them in the evening previously. The warm pocket of air was pleasant, and Thistle let out a soft sigh, hugging the pillow slightly harder and gazing through dark eyelashes admiringly at the kaleidascope of colours from the sunshine pouring through the colourful quilt atop her. This was the type of tranquility she so desired, for all the rest of her days. But, unluckily for her, it was not to be.<br/>Reginald crowed a second time, as if he had been set on snooze and was now simply insisting that his master got up. Thistle let out a sniffle, breathing in the scent of clean sheets, dirt, and warmth. Nymphs are known for their extremely fair sense of smell and touch, heightened compared to that of humans or even elves. Their eyesight is also stronger than the common race, though not nearly as such of the keen elves.<br/>Closing her eyes for one last tranquil period, Thistke's left hand slowly began to reach up over her head, curling around the lip of the blankets. Gripping the quarry, it began its journey back down like a curious spider, leading down the bed until Thistle's body was in full contact with the fresh morning air. Giving one last stroke of the soft, white cotton pillow, she arose, sitting  straight-backed with her toes touching the natural wooden swirls of her cottage's floor for a moment before rising.<br/>She swept her mousey brown bangs out of her line of vision, letting out a large yawn, surprising in size for a creature so small, hardly 5'3" by our measure. The perfect average for a nymph woman, with the same slender body and little to no bust to speak of. This gave her the appearance of a human child, though her face was easily recognizable as one of a young woman's, with deep, pale green eyes, a sloped nose, and full, pale lips. This was where the gold undertone of her skin was most prominent, across the brudge of her nose and cheeks in the form of freckles.<br/>Thistle wiped the morning tears and congealed gunk out of her eyes demurely before gazing out at the contents of her humble home.<br/>It appeared in disrepair to our standard, with moss and trees taking over the walls and floors. Barely a semblance of man-made structure remained. Even the furniture was wild, not carved nor cut, but tamed, right from the ground. A perfect example was the bed, four living, breathing oak trees that had intertwined themselves together in a fantastical lattice. All part of Thistle's skills as a nymph.<br/>Various things hung upon frayed cords tied to the ceiling, contents ranging from dried garlic to loose feathers. In the corner was a table, formed through the taming of a creeping, twine-like vine. Atop it sat an alchemy kit, along side potion bottles. Some were full, while others were empty, simply reflecting in the morning sun, waiting for their purpose to be achieved.<br/>A sort of half-step separated Thistle's bedroom from the rest of the house, which was an open, single room, except for a closed leafy door in the farthest left corner. The door to the outside, right beside the counter that divided the kitchen from the rest of the room, was wide open. Wild creatures that wandered in would not harm her, but make their piece in the shelter of the hut before leaving. Other people rarely ventured this far away from the road that wound its way through the main cities, so she held no fear of robbery.<br/>She wound her way through the hanging ingredients to the kitchen. Cupboards lined two walls, the third outside wall only occupied by a window. a small chest, rising to Thistle's knee, sat on the floor, formed from a plant that dispelled heat, and constantly remained a cold temperature. She popped open the lid of this special container, face sliding into dismay as she realized she had no bread, the main staple of her diet. While her communication with plants caused aversion to pointless destruction of them, she still felt it acceptable to eat those that grow from the ground.<br/><span style="font-style: italic">I'll have to go into town,</span>she thought in distress, closing the lid,<span style="font-style: italic">I know I'm missing a few other things as well.</span>She mainly avoided town, finding the sheer amount of people overwhelming, but this was a common case. Things that she could not make, she had to buy.<br/>The girl swivelled for a moment before realizing she was not dressed for a jaunt in a public place, and neither did she wield her coin purse. A thin white chemise was simply not appropriate. Her bare feet were of no consequence, seeing as how nymphs had strong skin on their feet, and preferred to walk closer to nature. She turned back to her bed, walking to the foot of it, where a little alcove resided. In the alcove was a tall dresser, that held the handful of items she wore on a daily basis.<br/>Folded upon themselves was a pair of brown trousers and a green tunic, with a somewhat decorative dark green belt, shaped like a layering of red mulberry leaves. the chemise was slipped over Thistle's head, careful not to get the easily rippable fabric caught on her ears.<br/>She decided to clean herself before getting dressed, walking over to the closed leafy door. It opened to a small room with walls, but no roof. Instead, a curved leaf blocked most of the sky. From the shadows, Thistle could tell it was full of water. Closing her eyes, she focused upon the faintly pulsing energy of the leaf, giving a simple request.<span style="font-style: italic">Tilt.</span>The plant in question already knew the nymph well, and quickly complied with the request, bending its stem so the watery contents of the leaf sloshed and poured down its spout-shaped tip.<br/>Thistle washed herself, humming a common nymph nursery rhyme, before requesting the leaf to tilt back up to its original state. It complied once again.<br/>Now clean, Thistle began putting on the outfit she had selected. She paused, thinking for a moment, before reaching back into the dresser, and grabbing a bright red ribbon. In an oft practiced motion, she flipped back her bangs, tying it into her hair with the ribbon. It kept her bangs out of her face, and also looked quite pretty, the perfect colour to set off her eyes. While Thistle had no mirror, a small bit of vanity crept into her, asking the ever-common question:<span style="font-style: italic">am I pretty?</span>She shook her head to get rid of the thought, jumping down the half step and grabbing her satchel, which held her money and other useful items.<br/>She gave energy to her garden as she passed. The variety of vegetables and fruit to her right were rsther extravagant, brightly coloured and healthy. They fetched a good price at the market when she was in town and in need of money, but now was not the time to harvest. Normally Thistle would stop by each one, but today she felt strangely rushed. Reginald surprised her, fluttering in a flurry of feathers from the roof of her cottage down to walk by her side. He clucked plainly with each bob of his head, satisfied that she had woken up to his crowing.<br/>Cows piled up on the fence to Thistle's left-hand side, mooing plaintively. She patted each on the nose lovingly. While she couldn't communicate to them quite as well as she did with plants, she did still feel a connection to the creatures.<br/>The dirt path continued down, the scenery changing into that of tall, golden fields on either side. Each plant reached to Thistle's neck. The grain swayed in the light breeze, as if to dance in the sun. She sighed happily, taking in the scent of her home before she led herself far away.<br/><br/>Twenty minutes later, and Thistle could smell the town. She wrinkled her nose in displeasure, smelling little freshness, only hard, relentless stone. Mountain nymphs supposedly enjoyed the cities, but she did not feel quite so at home there as that branch of her kind did. The front gate was in sight, and surprisingly wide open. Unusual, seeing as how it was usually snapped tightly shut, with guards letting in only those who had the correct papers. Thistle's mind was brought to the papers in her bag, all in order to proclaim her proud citizenship of the country. While nymphs were a very wily race, not strictly fitting under anyone's control, they still payed their respects to the king, though they were unwilling to share their magical skills and were not very useful in a fight. Nymphs rarely served in the king's armies, Thistle's spindly legs and arms a perfect example. She could barely wear armour, let alone wear a sword.<br/>There were still guards at the gate, Thistle noted, but their attention was turned to inside town, where raocous cheers could be heard, wafting along the mild breeze.<span style="font-style: italic">A royal address, perhaps?</span>the young woman mused, walking along the now-cobblestone ath, inclining upwards ever so slightly. As she passed through, one of the guards, a dark-skinned human that looked fairly miserable with his lot in life, stopped her, a lazy question of, "papers?" falling from idle lips.<br/>Thistle nodded, flipping the round sack from her back to by her side, rustling through until she found the proper indentification. The man barely glanced at it before flicking her through with a gesture of his fingers, looking thouroughly disappointed that he wasn't with the fanfare above. Thistle considered turning back, twiddling her hands together in a display of unease, but it felt too late now, and the vibrant energy of the crowd drew her curiously forward. She weaved her way through curved, empty streets, the dead wooden abodes causing her to shiver. If only all had the skill of nymphs, then perhaps not so many would be felled. She passed the bakery she went to often, pausing at the window, though she knew it was fruitless. As she suspected, it was empty. The shop owner and his family were part of the ever-growing crowd she could smell and hear.<br/>Bright banners were waved high, while children weaved among adults' feet, dressed in vibrant blues and yellows. It was almost like a party, with the aearance of free ale and drink. She found an elf woman with a platter of bread, and managed to sneak a few into her bag for later. She would return to her home later, but this crowd had the appearance of something interesting. The nymph was normally not an adventurous person, detesting any kind of contact with Quests or anything of the sort, but she felt as if she had to be here. So, she waited for the king's address with slight trepidation. Her nervous energy seemed to spill out of her, the dandelion by her right foot opening and closing in a beautiful yet strange display. Yellow had always been Thistle's favourite colour, being akin to sunshine and growth.<br/>A voice brought Thistle crashing down from her vague thoughts. "Wine?" A serving girl asked politely, attempting to hand her a glass.<br/><span style="font-style: italic">No tha-</span>Thistle began, starting a mental communication that was the large part of her life. She caught herself, realizing this girl could not hear nor understand her thoughts. She began to blush a deep gold, shaking her head nervously, "no thank you," she managed, shaking her head and looking down at her bare feet. Her voice was scratchy from disuse, but had the pleasant, rich accent of her forest homeland.<br/>The serving girl didn't seem to listen to her reply, shoving the full goblet into her hand anyways. Flustered, Thistle took a sip out of politeness, but found it vey distasteful. She was grimacing as she looked back up to return the cup, but he serving girl was gone. Thistle sighed and gazed down at the cup, as if willing the disgusting, bitter liquid to slosh away into nothingness. She rarely drank anything but water, and only needed the barest amounts of food to survive, finding three meals a day too much for her stomach to bear. It was quite a useful skill in the wilds and for travel, but ironically the nymphs rarely strayed from home. Thistle turned her attention back to the podium, where Thistle assumed the king would make his address. She abruptly realize that she'd mever seen the man before, and was suddenly curious as to what he looked like.