A Weeping Dryad

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She was beautiful once. She walks like someone just learning to use their legs again, clumsy and awkward, her skin might have been putty pulled into twisted coils, and her head is split open, her thoughts pouring forth like water.
Her grove is filled with sewage, knee deep and swarming with flies. Filth cakes the branches, black and oily tide-marks on the trunks, withered leaves still clinging to the twigs. She wades through it like a drunk bird, face contorted in sorrow even as further feculence floods forth. Her thoughts are filthy with grief, a vicious cycle without end.
Anything that disturbs her mourning causes her great distress, and she charges forward wildly, mucky mind swaying around wildly coating everything in poison and long stabbing limbs jabbing around in wild abandon. 
You might be able to save her. Perhaps not. 

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