Phantasm (or Seniors Shouldn't Have to Take Word Processing)

"How rude," Moonsill snarled as she picked dead grass out of her hair, which was about the color of the straw she'd been wallowing through for the past half hour. This was the result of an unfortunate encounter with a chimera that had taken the throat out of her horse and made a Chicken McNugget out of her familiar.
"I never liked that lizard anyway," said Moonsill of the familiar, sitting down on the knobbly roots of an oak tree to rest. The sun was in her eyes, and she was tired.
"Some sorceress," said a bell-like voice from the tree, and a torso the color of dead ferns flowed from the trunk like water.
"Damn, a dryad. I hate dryads," Moonsill offered, throwing thick yellow hair over her shoulder.
"Get off my tree," said the dryad, swinging her own green hair. "No one gave you permission to sit here."
"Give me a break, will you?" Moonsill asked, spreading her hands in an oh-come-on gesture. "It's four in the afternoon, I'm hopelessly lost, I'm starving, and I was nearly killed by a chimera that took out my horse and ate my familiar."
"Whyn't you just zap it with that magic stick of yours?" the dryad asked.
"That was the appetizer," Moonsill explained, holding up the chomped staff. A magic rune was half-visible under the jagged teeth marks.
"Some sorceress," the dryad repeated.
"Ah, turn blue," said Moonsill, chucking the useless staff into some shrubs, where it exploded in a poof of amber-colored light.
"Hey!" protested an elf, sticking her violet head out of the shrubs. "I'm trying to tan here!"
"Get off my tree," whined the dryad. "I've got company coming tonight and how will it look to have a half-staff sorceress out on my doorstep like an abandoned kitten?"
The appearance of a small, slight, white-haired boy with silver eyes marked the hiding of the elf in the shrubs and an annoyed hrrumph from the dryad. "Stay back. This is a new tree, it's barely four hundred years old. The fair housing committee said you have to keep back two hundred feet until the mystic moon sets on the wayward side of the sphere."
"Get lost," Moonsill snarled to Death. "I've had a hard day."
"I know," said the boy, looking at his very thin watch. He flipped some pages in a planner bound in birch bark and frowned. "Moonsill, you broke our appointment this afternoon."
"I had better things to do," Moonsill said airily, searching for her hat around the roots of the tree.
"Get her out of here!" the dryad said, pointing. "My company's coming soon and I can't have you here!"
"Ah, turn blue," Death said, waving a hand dripping with rings. "Come on, Moonsill, you're late."
"No way! You missed your shot with the chimera. Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars." Moonsill got up, brushing leaves off her dress. "Where's my sword?"
"Some sorceress! Some sorceress!" the dryad shrieked before melting back into her tree.
"Moonsill," called Death. "You know I'm only playing when I tell you that you're mine."
"That's fine," Moonsill said as she headed for the road.