Grelm: A grumpy, soot-covered dwarf. His beard is tangled with bits of rock, his pickaxe hangs heavily at his side, its head scored with the marks of a thousand strikes.

Sylarana: A shimmering dryad, her leaf-like hair gleaming with dew. She radiates an aura of serene nature magic, the air itself seeming to bend slightly around her.

Sylarana: (her voice like rustling leaves) Dwarf! You have encroached upon a sacred place. The spirits of this wood whisper your intentions – they speak of greed and desecration.

Grelm: (grumbles, shielding his eyes from a stray sunbeam) Sacred? Bah! Ain't nothin' sacred 'bout a bunch of overgrown weeds. Now outta my way, tree-hugger, or I'll be huggin' your roots to make a fine chair, mark my words!

Sylarana: This forest is the last sanctuary of our kind, the beating heart of a world your people have marred. You seek to plunder what does not belong to you! To harm it is to cut at your own soul.

Grelm: Heart of your world, mebbe. Mountains – that's where the true riches lie, the heart of things worth fightin' for. Not this tangled mess of leaves and shadows. Still, I s'pose there might be veins of gold twistin' beneath them roots of yours, eh? A prize worth the trouble.

Sylarana: There is nothing but decay beneath the surface here, the echoes of battles long past. It will consume you, body and spirit. Leave.

Grelm: Consume me? Heh! Makes a fine challenge, that does. Stubborn trees, stubborn spirit... there's a scrap worthy of a dwarf's blood. (He spits on the ground in defiance, and the spittle sizzles where it hits a patch of strangely colored fungus).

A low rumble shakes the forest floor. A thick vine, thorny and black as old iron, bursts from the ground, whipping Grelm's feet out from under him.

Grelm: Woah now! Steady on– blasted roots!

Sylarana: This is your final warning, dwarf. Turn back while you still can.

Grelm: Hmph. Didn't come all this way to get chased off by a talking bush. Stubborn spirit, I like that. (He picks himself up, dusting off leaves) Tell ya what, spirit-lady. I came after a rumor, somethin' about a lost forge they say's hidden here. Somethin' about fire hotter than any a dwarf's ever seen.

Sylarana (a sorrowful sigh shivers through the leaves around her): You speak of the Dragonheart Forge… It sleeps now, but indeed, greed has awoken it in ages past. We sealed it together, dryad and dwarf, but the stain of its making remains, poisoning the heart of this wood.

Grelm: Now that's a forge worth mentioning! They say a weapon made with that fire could split a mountain clean in two... Could make a warrior worthy o' takin' down a whole range, with a bit of dwarven skill thrown in.

Sylarana: It is a blight upon this world, a scar that will never heal. Every time it is stirred, the consequences are disastrous.

Grelm: Then why not smash the thing? Save everyone the trouble. Ain't nothin' a good hammerin' can't solve.

Sylarana: It is… not so simple. The Dragonheart cannot be destroyed, only contained. The forest itself guards it now, with every root and branch.

Grelm: (A long, thoughtful pause, the gears visibly turning in his grimy brow) And if something were to, say, distract all your woodsy friends... that forge might get a bit vulnerable, eh? A dwarf with a good axe, fightin' by the side of a tree-spirit... ain't seen that ballad written yet.

Sylarana (a reluctant sigh): This will not end well. Yet, there may be a spark of cunning within your greedy heart, dwarf. Follow me, and tread with respect, or the forest itself will swallow you whole.

Grelm: Don't worry, spirit-lady. I'm good at not gettin' eaten by angry plants. For now. Lead on, and keep those vines of yours in check!

They walk, side-by-side, into the forest's depths. An unlikely (and possibly disastrous) alliance is born.