He felt not the cold of the sharp wind that whistled through the trees, but the warmth of the trees themselves, as the Mossman’s twig and mud feet carried the green phantom through the forest. His arms of tangled vines swung heavily as the chunk of earth moved towards a destination unknown even to him. The Mossman made hardly a sound as he made his way to the edge of the forest. A fluttering of wings caught his leafy ear, bringing him to a halt as his stone gray eyes scanned the trees. Even in the thick of the forest he had missed any sign of life, until he spotted the source of the noise. A jet black crow had landed before him, and it stared with the most unusual purple eyes that read the Mossmans thoughts.
“You call yourself the Mossman?” asked the scratchy voice of the crow.
“That is correct. My true name has left me through time. Can you tell me where I am headed?”
“That answer is up to you, but I can tell you where you’ve been,” replied the crow, hopping to the Mossmans stiff shoulder.