Literature
Greenwood
Puck Goodfellow
Greenwood breathes deeply of its spring air and leaves, budding enthusiastically. The paths wind round its trees and rocks and hills through valleys, foot beaten and traveled by many, now by an old man.
"Always by me. Always by who? Always by you. Who is we? Ho ho ho! It's me. It's me."
He is coming down a path, hiding along the bushes, spying upon a squat stone cabin, smoke rising from the chimney. A snagly-toothed grin sprouts across his face.
"What a perfect opportunity you will be. You will be."
He pathetically staggers his dry bones to the front door