By the light of the barefaced moon, one tree; a sapling between giants, slipped by the rough wood of strangers and respectfully branches brushed together and mingled, the language of such an old forest rich with culture. All the while a fresh autumn breeze strolled among them, rustling flimsy leaves playfully as it went, promising the swift return of snow, of ice and significantly shortened days. The trees all around shuddered and trembled as they stood; each curling the tips of their roots objectionably, and shaking hastily their browning canopies. The young body plant nestled safely in the dip of a young filly’s back waved and danced to the silent rhythm of the wind, untouched by seasonal shifts so feared by her kind. She was nursed well, and carried from woodland to rainforest; wherever their souls could find harmony.

Fig’s retiring gaze wandered meekly down each of the unfamiliar forest’s funnelling corridors. She was uncertain where they had come, but sure that the old pines surrounding (and the rogue oaks who shared their beds) would offer little protection when winder finally fell upon this land. Her body plant swayed restlessly, the lag of the elements pulling at still delicate limbs who would not withstand anything wilder. She had been drawn in by the fresh stench of pine; the comfort of decomposition and promise of shelter, but her senses had led her astray; the wind had turned teasingly and now carried from the north only hints of moisture and snow. That certainly would not suit their needs at all.

She turned south, compelled to move further from the biting wind and all that it heralded, travelling with the casual, gradual slowness that was natural for her kin. Fig tried earnestly to avoid the beaten track which curled frequently across her path, but she was so unused to these parts; the open space and lack of vegetation, that she found its company time and time again. She was not a social creature; the Lignea were not a communal species, and she froze often, with baited breath when the shadowy form of another slipped past nearby. With searching nostrils she tried endlessly to determine their route; the direction which would find them descending into the depths of a vast forest, tropical or not- so long as she could conceal herself and her body plant from the wicked eyes of this new alien population, they could survive.


[Note: Fig is only a yearling, so far younger still than her picture suggests (I just love her picture though ;)]

fig