Lower your axe.

Of course, you leave a tree to its business. How many citizens had passed by with stoppered ears--knowing full well that any root has its reasons? And no dwarf has any right going armed into the wood without expecting retribution. So, you skirt that particular glen and eventually the yells subside and in time those bones are incorporated into the landscape--one of a million warnings the forest offers up.

But those girls. Living on the fringe, practically perched to cause trouble with their good looks and ludicrous opposing natures. Always pushing and pulling and making ripples in the sensitive frabric of the forest. The pale one would have known--would have stood like marble until her slow mind worked out the story behind the scene, would have left it to its end. But the other, never one to resist the flush of discovery, was bound to indiscretion. And fated to step into the narrative by broadcasting their hideout in the red maple brake--so alike in color to her dress and cheeks and traitorous mouth.