Vila

They moved with the ease and assurance of one confident in their safety and the sanctity of their home. Their every garment seemed hewed from something ancient and living in the way of plant and stone, scratches worked deliberately into the preposterous garment lending color in the hues of precious stones and amber. It's hands seeming ill suited to healing with long protrusions of stone and wood jutting upward and back along the forearms and each finger, dexterous certainly, terminating in points that could easily pierce and break. One arm, though, remained ever tucked against it's side beneath the cape as if crippled and never restored though such hardly seemed a bother to them as they stepped into the glade fully and a measure of their features could be glimpsed. A mane of emerald fire fell from their head to the small of their back, dancing, writhing, and twisting upon the breezes as sparks and embers fell in their wake, parted only by the barely worked stone of horns not unlike a ram's in their backward sweep. Where one expected a face, however, there dwelt only a smooth expanse of polished stone that seemed to catch and flicker with light. Whether mask or perfected form it rendered the being inscrutable even as it approached with no hint of malice.