"In truth, the moon did not always look like a pearl..."

That was a story from a long, long time ago — a dreadful story. Fortunately, it is just a story — not some memory of mine or yours. Once upon a time, the moon turned into the shape of fangs that smirked ferociously. Moonlight no longer waltzed through the leaves to cast itself onto the grass, turning the dew into glimmering pearls.

Trees were thrust down to the ground like wheat overwhelmed by strong winds. Every inch of the land was swamped by grief.
The grief was so formidably immense and intense that even the streams were fraught with the pungent odor of salt and iron.

Our creator, Queen Aranyani, trusted us with the forest. We thus embarked upon the battles against the monsters that emerged from the darkness, colossi made of iron and steel, and Marana.
She entered the desert with the forest's children. They burnt the roots of disaster and tore the branches of calamity, but only a few of them eventually made it back to the embrace of the shade of trees.
We lost Vanarana, and too many Aranara returned to the ground before their time. Even the story that survived was bitter and agonizing.

But we defeated the calamity in the end. Even in the deepest sea of sand, the lotuses still bloomed.
She who created us had once again created new life to mend the land's hollowed heart.

... Courage and strength still ring out amidst the most bitter of tales. No story is as powerful as "memories," but they empower nevertheless.
I will cherish the stories you handed to me, stories of our adventure. Should calamity ever recur and the moon mutate, these stories will protect the forest on your behalf.