He still strides, through the forests of this world, forgotten. His protectorate is shrinking, his strength waning, but still he is strong beneath the twilight eaves of green shadows. At his footsteps once grew tangled saplings, each striving to reach the golden light of the sun, to dominate and conquer the canopy. Now his footsteps hammer against the grey-black earth, spreading a carpet of lichen and moss. He is dying. He knows this, as surely as he feels each chainsaw’s biting teeth, each bulldozer’s grinding blade, each lick of fire. He still strides through the forests of this world, cursing his own impotence and his cowardice, cursing the little men who come to fell giants.
They still flee in terror when he appears, but their stories are no longer heeded, neither the old stories nor the new, dismissed as drunken, ancient trifles – once more the men come into the forest.
He will show them his power.
Ancient groves go wandering, and new growth springs up amidst the suburbs, the ghosts of living forests erupting.
The Protector of the Forests must save his charges.
Whatever the cost.