Psithurism filled in the little pockets of silence that the forest had between the groans of the trees. It was a white noise background to the sounds of deer calling to one another across the landscape. Each bird call or friendly bellow echoed off of the trees like a pinball bouncing in its machine, but always seemed to reach the ears of its intended audience. These were the sounds that Moss heard today as he lazed in a patch of violet flowers. The stag enjoyed the smell of these particular blooms. He thought it had to be their location both always being baked in the sun and close to the strong magic of a mushroom circle. He religiously moved from his home to this place for daily gokotta.

The sophrosyne stag blearily peered over the landscape. The pond glittered just over to his left like a blue gem. The brook swiftly moved from his right to fill it, hissing the whole way from the crying idol that silently mourned at its origin. He smiled, blinking away the last dregs of sleepiness from his eyes so that he could take a better look. A gust of wind rustled the tree above him, causing the leaves to flicker and the shadows on the ground to do the same. It made the illusion that Moss was moving, when in fact he lay still on the floor of the forest. He almost felt as if he were drifting over the landscape... only to realize that he had indeed fallen asleep and his mind was doing just that. Silently he watched others at play or at rest, occasionally stopping to check on one or two, before moving on. It was then that he realized that he was indeed a Nemophilist; a lover of the forest and nature. This place was the one place he truly loved and belonged in.

While his mind wandered the forest, his body slept. It was a gray mound among violet flowers. A smile graced the deer's face, a mask of pure contentment. A little flower near his nose flailed wildly with each breath or sigh. So was a regular day in the forest for a stag who slept long, but wandered constantly.