But Ilise, cares not for the realms of men, for all she needs is the wind on her face as the sun begins his journey through the sky. Her home tree shudders as it begins to lift its roots from the dirt. A few large, twisted knots seem to focus on Ilise, as a crack in the bark splits apart like a mockery of a smile. Moss hangs from the lowermost of branches forming a crude facsimile of a face.