There's an oak tree in front of the Hundred Herb Gardens.
This oak is quite old, its bark rough and cracked, covered with a thick layer of light blue-green moss. The short and sturdy trunk splits into branches not far from the ground, reminiscent of a giant hand reaching out to the heavens, twisted and deformed under immense pressure.
A grey and black squirrel, holding an acorn, lay down at the entrance of its home, hanging its head off the tree trunk as it gave a big yawn.
Those odd two-legged creatures beneath the tree were once again shedding their skin. It stared down at the two-legged creatures bustling around and shrieking beneath the tree, raised its fluffy tail, and gave it a bored flick.
Every time the color of the sky changed, these two-legged creatures changed their skin several times. Oh, great Druids, I have to wait until the white chill flowers fall from the sky to shed this dull fur and wear a warm and clean cloak.
