So they say, a soldier was once marching through an ancient forest with his regiment. They were starving because their supply lines had been intercepted, and the army was fleeing pursuit by superior forces. The soldier gathered acorns and mushrooms in his desperation for sustenance. His troupe was set upon in an ambush as they were bogged down in the marshes of the Puksfole — and the pouch of acorns and mushrooms he was carrying eventually sprouted into a tree, bearing a dryad as fruit.
Her fey spirit was darkly warped by the tortured blood of so many slain men which had stained the soil from which her roots suckled. Olienne’s whims are disturbingly morbid and her outlook is one of morose fatalism. Her fey bond with the soul of the land which surrounds her abode grants her, like other dryads, much lore of natural magics, but Olienne’s sap also pulses with the taint of black witchcraft.
The cries and whimpers of the maimed and dying haunt the mists which smother her marshy demesne.