Theocritus

The Foxfire Bramble is known for its secrets. The crushing, thorny knots are home to a veritable menagerie of creepers, crawlers and prowlers. They swarm over each other, emitting strange clicks and creaks - a crawling dread made worse by the all-consuming blackness. It's a darkness so thick as to be tangible, settling over the eyes and ears of travellers, leaving them blind, helpless. Most who enter never leave, those who do are changed.

Theocritus is among the many who never left. Hundreds of years ago, far more than she would ever care to count, she stumbled into that tangled web of roots and vines. Like so many others before and since, she was soon lost. The thickly clustered brambles tore at her with greedy fingers, snatching away her hopes and dreams, her name and her clan. For most dragons, such emptiness is unbearable. Theocritus, though, had never been most dragons. She shed her old life, like a once loved skin that has grown tight and uncomfortable.

She'll never leave the forest now. Instead she wanders through its thickets and groves, a pair of pale, dispassionate eyes that care not a tuppence for dragon nor beast. A shepherd not for cattle, but for brambles.