"A tree. A song. A bad idea. Something out of the corner of your eye that was never there." Its voice drips with whimsy, then menace, deepening and spiraling into dark, uncomfortable places. The suddenly, it rises up again, like an excited choir of crickets.

"I suppose you could say I'm an oracle of sorts, but not the sort you should always trust. I think you ought to trust me now, though. Of course, that might not be something you should take my word for!"

The tree-thing shifts at its edges, as the gathered swarm of butterflies rearranges itself, expanding into a cloud of ever-shifting hues, and then compressing itself into the shape of an old man who looks the very definition of a trickster. He's grinning such a smile that it threatens to escape his face.

"I must say, that smells delightful!"