Two fearful eyes stare out from beneath an insect helmet that is too big. Jack is a young boy drafted into a war his mind can never fathom... horror... his childhood friends torn apart and mangled by a steam-powered plough on Raven Hill... quickly, Jack surpresses the visions of blood and screaming dying men enrolling before his eyes, surpresses the tears welling on his muddied face...
"n-not true, didn't happen, not LISTENING!" Jack whimpers to himself. Then, peace. He finds himself standing in the autumn forest, bright colors all around, the sharp scent of nature in his nostrils. As he looks back, the doorway to Hildmoor vanishes into thin air, and Grimholt Forest eagerly descends on smiling Jack.
In the encampment, not one of the battle-weary soldiers pays attention to the sobbing boy curled up on the ground.
Hey Jack young boy!
Pick your good old toy!
Won't you play with me?
Won't you hug a tree?
Do you hear our plea?