Shywild was old, even for his kind. The others of Elven-kind had died during the wars, or by their own hand or of grief after losing the wars, but, unhappily, he had hung on, had soldiered on, had lived on. He despised as lonely a world bursting with people.
Now there were cars and parking lots where there had been fauns and forest, skyscrapers where there had been sky, machines where there had been magic: the humans had defiled their hard-fought prize. They didn’t even remember that they were at war. They were fools, and they had inherited the Earth.