Naiobe largely keeps her eyes on her work, though she pauses every few strokes to glance down at her dryad. The woodland spirit suffers pain exquisitely, and Naiobe loves to hurt her. She lets the blade caress each portion of that mark, her knife sure and true. She strokes her fingers down one side of the tree, and sets the knife aside once she's finished. "Stand up," she tells the dryad. "Stand up and kiss it, then thank me for marking you." She reaches to caress the soft flesh of the dryad's shoulder as she gives her order, enjoying the way the dryad's eyes well, the little quiver that runs through the dryad's body. She finds herself pondering how to play with the dryad today, and a smile crosses her face as she debates with herself. She has a particular torment in mind, and today might be the day ...