The Guardian of the Forest has eyes that glint in the shadows long after the sun has set. Ivy twines through her hair, twisting with the curls that bounce against her back as she darts between the trees. Her footsteps are as soft and fleeting as spring. Her skin, dark as tree bark, smells fresh like the dirt after rain. Sometimes, the buds of wildflowers will sprout across her collarbone. She doesn’t speak, never speaks, but the creatures of the wood are quick to greet her gentle hands. Sometimes, if they are quiet enough, she will purse her lips and whistle for them. A simple tune. A song for the birds to learn and carry. At night, she wanders through her forest, leaving dewdrops on leaves as she reaches out to pluck the bright red berries. The fruit stains her lips like blood—a poison that is not meant for her. A warning to any men who dare disturb her woods. A color that lingers until morning, fleeing only when the sun comes out and rays of gold can dapple her skin once more.
The Guardian of the Desert has horns that curl from the crown of her head. She had a face, once, but now a bleached-white cow skull is all that sits above her shoulders. I’m a lover of cliches, she tells the tumbleweeds, especially the morbid ones. She doesn’t wear shoes, but it doesn’t matter because the heat of the desert will never burn her. Sand slips between her toes like silk. She skips across the cracks in the dirt like hopscotch squares. At noon, when the sun is high (or at night when everything is quiet) she seats herself on a barrel cactus and watches the few plants that exist among the barren wastes rustle in the wind. Sometimes, she leans down and traces abstract designs across the ground—pictures that resemble the flight paths of hawks and scorpion skeletons. She doesn’t eat, leaving the few morsels of food for the creatures out there who need it. Neither does she drink, for water is scarce and her thirst is sated by the breaths she takes late at night when the heat of the land has transformed into a chilling, biting cold.Â
The Guardian of the Sea sings the songs that she learns from sailors. The shanties that drift in the wind like wayward ballads but run afoul with expletives. Her voice is eerie when she copies them, as she’s always been quite good at mimicking voices. Sometimes, the waves quell their crashing to listen to her, and she’ll sing a haunting melody with the wind. Her eyes are glassy and green, like marbles, though they’re actually the color of her favorite fish—the small ones that hide among the corals. Her hair is modeled after her favorite sea grass, and it clings to her cheeks whenever she breaches to breathe. She doesn’t eat the sea-life, though her teeth are sharp enough to suggest the opposite. The points are far more honed to tear through plastic and the necks of those who dare pollute her waters. When she smiles, she bares those teeth and corners of her sea-green eyes crinkle. It’s a frightening sight, but, then again, no one ever taught her how to be friendly. She doesn’t mind. Most of the creatures that live in the depths of the ocean can’t see her anyway, and they’re far more terrifying than she could ever be.
