"My kin and I had laboured hard to reap the yearly harvest. Lain weary on our gathered sheaves we cracked a vat of ale. Poured a toast; Began to boast of who could sup the hardest. Slumped in drunken slumber at the height of wild wassail.... I woke to find my brothers gone that Autumn eve so balmy. Yet gazed in wide-eyed terror to the barley fields nearby. Struck dumb I swore; Stood before a mighty woad-duabed army. Believed my wits deceived me 'til I heard their battle-cry." [The Lord Of The Trees: