Bamboo trunk was there again, in front of him, swaying sinuously, seemingly innocent in the faint breeze that sent the bamboo leaves fluttering like ten thousand vengeful crickets. He knew better, the sun filtering through green dappled leaves, the hue of this particular bamboo trunk was tinged with red, like the stink of blood. Pockmarked and scarred as if a multitude of swords and spears had been thrust at it in vain. The cancerous growths of think virulent fibres like growths on the trunk.

The old man wheezed, the scream building up inside of him, but that would only attune the blind awareness of the forest on him. The ravening wind picked up dry leaves cutting across his face like razor shirikins. This forest god was angry. The man turned to run. What else could he do?