Fourteen foot high, limbs creaking like the slow bend of trees in the wind, feet like great root systems sinking into the earth as he treads, Fangorn makes his way through the forest, daemon clinging among his foliage, barely distinguishable from the bark of his skin with the moss growing green on her fur.

Though it is plainly a forest, alive with the songs of trees and smaller, growing things, he feels as he did when walking amongst the burnt and broken bodies of his tree-herds. There is a chill on the air, and the scent of bad magic and machinery and scorched oil.

'Hmmm, hum,' he grumbles, a deep, nearly subvocal groan of sound, branches shivering, 'Burárum.'

There is something very wrong here, and he does not like it. These are not his woods, and something is sick in the heart of them.

He is not expecting to come across a man-- or he takes it for a man, at least-- riding through the forest astride some animal like a great elk, and Fangorn comes to a slow halt, the sloth amid his branches slowly lifting her head to peer down. 'Hoom, hum! And what have we here?'