The bones had lain forgotten among the tree's roots for countless years. The dragon had fled wounded into the forest and collapsed, never to rise again. Its body had fed the forest, and now the forest called on it again.

Vines twined through bones like muscle and sinew and green membranes stretched over its wings. A strange light glinted in its hollow eye sockets and slowly, haltingly, it stood. Clothed only in rotted rags stained green with moss and shedding dirt and leaves, it lurched forward.

The forest was ancient. Though few individual trees survived for more than a few centuries, its old roots ran deep, and it had stoicly weathered many ages of the world. Magic had washed over it and through it. Races had come and gone. Always it had watched, even when its trees were destroyed by insects or pestilence, fire or axe. Never before had it felt the need to act. But now it was under attack and dying.

It was old, and wise in a slow, alien way; wise enough to know that it could not save itself. And so it raised a messenger, a piece of itself shaped around a dragon's bones. If it could not save itself, perhaps it could find someone or something that could.

The puppet stumbled out into the world as behind it the forest fought a losing battle.