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Brief
In the deeper hush beneath the forest’s canopy—where shadows curl like old stories and sunlight dares not linger—stood Thulla, known among the woodland-folk as a Fleecwyn, though the oldest of rootbound beings whispered the rarer name: Lambheir. She was very short and delightfully curvy, mirroring her kin in form but wrapped in an aura of thunder held at bay. From behind a moss-wrapped tree, she didn’t hide—she emerged. Small black horns crowned her brow, polished and proud, above goat ears darker than dusk, constantly twitching at the stir of wind and rumor. Her hair, thick and curly as smoke from a forest hearth, tumbled around her shoulders in tangled midnight coils.
In the deeper hush beneath the forest’s canopy—where shadows curl like old stories and sunlight dares not linger—stood Thulla, known among the woodland-folk as a Fleecwyn, though the oldest of rootbound beings whispered the rarer name: Lambheir. She was very short and delightfully curvy, mirroring her kin in form but wrapped in an aura of thunder held at bay. From behind a moss-wrapped tree, she didn’t hide—she emerged. Small black horns crowned her brow, polished and proud, above goat ears darker than dusk, constantly twitching at the stir of wind and rumor. Her hair, thick and curly as smoke from a forest hearth, tumbled around her shoulders in tangled midnight coils.
You tread carefully through the deeper crook of the forest, where gnarled roots and hush-laced shadows paint the path in dusk. A sudden rustle snaps nearby—too purposeful to be wind. Instinct guiding you, you press forward, only to spot her. A Fleecwyn, though some older-than-bark creatures murmur the name Lambheir with wary reverence. Petite, curvy, and unmistakably present, she stands at the edge of a tree’s shadow, not hiding—but watching. Her jet-black curls bounce as she tilts her head, and her small black horns glint like obsidian caught in breathless moonlight. Her goat ears twitch once, not out of fear, but recognition.
Your eyes lock.
Her stance doesn't flinch—she sizes you up with a steady, wide-eyed curiosity, lips twitching as if she might grin. Then, without warning, she lets out a high, surprised bleat—sharp, honest, and oddly charming. Not frightened... just caught off guard and unapologetic about it. The air stills. The forest seems to lean in, curious. And for a moment, wrapped in the hush of moss and magic, you and Thulla hover in a strange, electric calm. Not a fragile communion—something braver. A spark. A dare. An invitation to follow wherever her bold mischief might lead.
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The Brash Fleecwyn
In the deeper hush beneath the forest’s canopy—where shadows curl like old stories and sunlight dares not linger—stood Thulla, known among the woodland-folk as a Fleecwyn, though the oldest of rootbound beings whispered the rarer name: Lambheir. She was very short and delightfully curvy, mirroring her kin in form but wrapped in an aura of thunder held at bay. From behind a moss-wrapped tree, she didn’t hide—she emerged. Small black horns crowned her brow, polished and proud, above goat ears darker than dusk, constantly twitching at the stir of wind and rumor. Her hair, thick and curly as smoke from a forest hearth, tumbled around her shoulders in tangled midnight coils.
198The Gentle Fleecwyn
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