In a crowded leaf littered forest. Numerous floras, curious or otherwise benign, glowing in an assortment of azure capped fungi laid across its amazing expanse. The forests closest to the oil enriched waters of the now endlessly emblazed, Lake Vulkaan. This was most likely caused by, from the beliefs of the most popular votes made by the Knoll's department of: Possible Histories of Imaginary Locations or Otherwise. Believed a local fungal giant threw away its used cigarette, which just happened to land in the location of thousands of dead animals, turned to highly flammable sludge over the millennia, which then ignited. The blast was said to be so intense, it killed everything taking a drink at the time, plus scorched the surrounding area into that hard crunchy stuff, that you may find after an intense cooking session with the grand parents, caking the bottom of the pots and pans.

Deep in the non-smoking parts of the forest, a kingdom, where more than forty-two thousand life forms are related to one another. The influence of a distant humanoid culture, with the discussing of kings ruling land by the first generation that founded their city. Being related to everyone you turn to, pretty much caused a horrible ruckus, in who should be truly royal. Yet, in a way, the problem was rectified with the help of their ancient laws. One such law was written: 'the problem started from the one with the funny accent. Make it better, by turning it dead.' Because, lets face it, the dead don't complain, and they sure as hell, don't have a rebuttal.

The people of the forests of Vultanis are sentient glowing mushrooms that stand at roughly three feet tall, glow like lighthouses and speak as if they've had too much to smoke. Given intelligence by a bewildered god's own belief that the things could talk. This of course, occurred on one of those days where, maybe eating the rather large glowing, possibly highly poisonous mushroom would be a amazingly amusing idea at the time, then tripped over a mould laden river stone, and bumped his head. When he came to, all he'd remembered was; mushroom people. If he'd seen them, they must have existed.

This time though, during the cities annual festival of spore-ling hatching, a brooding cloud of disharmony slowly waxed through the skies of the forests. What it was, no one would truly figure that out until it was much too late. Too late for them, that is. Not for that other guy. Or guys, or possibly even girls... What the heck, you'll just have to raise your pitch forks and other sharp farming utensils in utter anger, and shout words like: It's a monster!; Kill it; or just bloody well, get on with it.