It was not the throbbing of his shattered tusk that woke him. It was not the obscene memory of his clan being slaughtered by the Clanless, grey-armored orcs that made him stir. His hatred of the Clanless did not keep him alive. His shame of falling in the battle and the closeness of his death did not raise him from unconsciousness. He was not stirred by the stench of excrement in the limited space of the wooden box that served as his cell. He was not awakened by the shaking of the carriage or the sharp edges of the steel cuffs carving into his ankles and wrists. He was revived by the drumming. 

It has become common knowledge for the gods and a few highly powerful magical beings that the tree ent, Taralar, has become cursed. It has been known for decades now, but Taralar’s condition has been deteriorating more and more rapidly. The complication of this is Taralar’s purpose. He was placed in this forest to protect the dryad, Durala.