The forest is at war. It has been at war for more than a tree's age; only the deepest and tallest say they can remember any time of peace.
The plains-men hack and burn; they break the Earth and enslave all life they can touch, and destroy everything they do not enslave. Animals, orcs, halflings, men--all labor under whips and starve themselves next to edible plants. It would be one thing to lose a war against a healthy people, full of life and joy, and to see the forest replaced by something with more verve. But no; the fields are a thing of pain and life not any better than death. It entraps those within it; when they can escape, they do.
When he had a different name, Flamefang escaped. He learned the ways of life, free and wild; saw the fields close in on the forests, he and his fellow druids pushing back when they could.