He made his way across the brown grass and cracking dirt to where the edge of the lake — now a mere pond — now lay. The water was brown, silty, but he had no choice: he lowered his bucket in to fill it.
The dryad rose up, a woman’s shape in water. She was smaller, less sharply defined than she had been in better times. “What news?”
He shook his head “Still no sign of rain. The wizards work at it, but…”
“Thus it ends.”
He offered, “We could move you to the ocean…”
“Salt water? I would die even quicker.”
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