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Old Crow looked around him. He was surrounded by caricatures of himself; a parade of mockeries.

He was a meek spirit, bound to no more than a rock in the woods, waiting for a passerby to feed him.

He was a trickster poet, seducing the maidens that left bundles of sticks at his feet.

He was alone, cold and shivering, no matter which way he shifted or pulled his blankets over him.

He was emboldened by the fresh trade routes winding their way through his forest.

He saw a young soldier, sad and pitiful, clutching a dull red ribbon in his hand.

The soldier sat upon his rock, and Old Crow had known then what he must do.

That was the first change Old Crow had known.

Fevered and weak, he knew another was soon to follow.

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