that strange evening with Spite Transylvania when we followed a trail of glowing moths through the Forest of the Rarely Seen and somehow ended up sharing a bottle of blackberry wine with a group of retired bug-poets who lived inside a hollow oak tree. She kept changing her appearance every few minutes just to confuse the moths, while I tried to maintain some dignity as Sheriff Moon, though that became difficult after I accidentally fell into a creek and lost my hat for half an hour. The moon was enormous that night, hanging over the trees like a lantern, and the whole forest seemed to whisper forgotten stories from the old Spite Wars. We never did find what we were originally looking for, but on the walk home Spite Transylvania smiled and said that the best adventures are the ones that get lost on purpose, and I reckon she was right.