Rustling of trees and music in the air (open)

It is a melody she has heard before. The soft wind, whispering through leaves, the gentle babble of water over stone, the chorus of her kin and the sacred forest, The Greatwood, united to celebrate the turning season. The tiny Fae is drawn to it, pulled free from the stale streets and sun-scorched wasteland that she has apparently committed her interests to; how could she resist. Music She finds herself straddling two worlds, dipped in the murky shadow of the trees, the borderline between two clashing cultures; and sees the sickness leaking from one into the other. Though a frown greets the obvious (at least to the eye that is trained to see), it is short-lived and swiftly smothered by a broad, cheerful smile. Two figures loom, one of reasonable (Fae) size, the other of them, and upon long, shining wings she ventures nearer. “You play beautifully,” honeyed words compliment, but she fails to heed the winged man otherwise, instead she turns to the taller. “Don’t let Her highness catch you beyond the clearing.” A warning proffered with curious warmth and gleaming white teeth exposed. Bright eyes indicate the other, the one similar to she, and her shoulders shrug. “Rumour among our folk suggests they are savages, and there’s that little thing about not entering The Greatwood without permission from the crown…” A kind, though cheeky, wink. Finally, her focus turns to the one with the flute. “What brings you into our world, musician?” There is a flicker through those soft, young features that suggests humour, maybe mischief, but it is so fleeting that true intention quickly is lost, or else confused. She stands on the side of the barrier-man, naturally, and fastens her fingers across one titled hip, lips pursed to the side. Any opportunity to prove her side...