A harsh, icy wind howled down from the snow-laced mountains to the north, and still worse, every surface her glistening green eyes scurried across seemed well blanketed in cold wet, white winter. The maturing, sturdy ficus nestled comfortably against the curve of her spine shivered and her leaves shook violently as the bitter gust rushed by. Give us strength Nepenthes, Fig mumbled softly in prayer, Corocottas, please light our path... The now fully grown Lignea knew little of the gods of this crude, selfish land, and turned instead to those who had blessed this new journey, and so too the one which had delivered her to the alien shores of Helovia once before.

They tracked south from the Threshold this time, not lingering for long where the haggard old pines and snow-laden oaks groaned dismally beneath the weight of their curse. Fig wished not to tempt such an ill fate upon her or the body plant above after all and her cumbersome pace hastened the best it could. Swivelling ears searched in vain for the reassuring warble of the native birds present the last time they had crossed through these parts, but there was no sound to rise above the morose whine, no murmur of the wild wonderland which had offered her pounding heart hope in times gone by. Eerie... she thought quietly to herself, swarthy coat trembling beneath the heavy drape of her body plant’s root-curtain. But perhaps it was best for the safety of their precious foliage.

It was still early in the morning, and a weak yellow sun had slipped above the far eastern horizon. It was the time of day most of her kind, the Lignea, were particularly active – celebrating the gift of first light, soaking up the mild warmth and photosynthesising in general. The ancient, peaceful race grazed not like the careless creatures of this world; there was a harmonious balance between themselves and all of nature, all that had been set to exist and breath upon the shifting sands of the earth by their side. Fig drew energy from the sun, of course, and from sweet restorative waters that did not themself breathe; but there was no scent of the latter to attract their delay. Between the straggly old trees before the drop into the meadow, shafts of light did seep, and the young Lignea felt the touch of the winter sun bless her glossy rump.

Before descending into the vast, treeless pasture that she only very vaguely remembered, they paused and her gentle eyes broadened as a shadow drew their interest. “What is this?” Her voice was deep, slow, ethereal; a far cry from the nervous pitch so typical amongst the juveniles of her magical species. Ahead of them, still a very long way away, there was hovering a smear of black in the sky, and Fig couldn’t remember seeing it there before. She turned her face east into the brightening sunlight and was certain that World’s Edge - where she had followed the ignorant, but rather sweet mushroom killer to, lay nestled in a grove of mist strewn trees there. The creature had a sound sense of direction. “That shadow, it is new...” she suggested confidently, curiously, tilting her large equine head thoughtfully and glancing back to the rather candid addition to the Helovian skyline.

Glossy green leaves trembled as her heartbeat quickened, and the aggressive wind swept down from the rear.

The thought to return to the safety of the Edge did for a moment cross Fig’s mind. Prim'sylva had been much the same for hundreds, if not thousands of years – life was slow, comfortable and change was as rare as the nonexistent conflict between the many breeds of the Lignea. It would never have occurred to her that the appearance of the island they now pursued had been accompanied by a great upheaval in this strange world, darkness, death and the realigning of allegiances. Perhaps it was a fine thing that they had been distracted from that course for the time being and the inevitable confusion delayed. As it were, the island unsettled her more than adequately.

By evening the heavy Lignea had reached the unfamiliar bridge to the Veins. Her legs were weary, trembling and sore, for journeys were seldom taken by her kind and in the last little while (years in fact) they had travelled vast distances. Though the reason for her return never strayed far from her thoughts, Fig could not resist the urge to explore. It was an island that grew before her, a floating bank of earth that absolutely boggled all sense of reason. She gazed imploringly at it with her chin strained into the air, and her tender, sweet expression seemed puzzled. Well I never... she mused as the light began to dim, and though she hesitated for a long while to draw closer, Fig found her stiff root-shrouded legs pulling forward. Suddenly too, a strange mist had amassed by her hooves. Unnatural cloud – she thought with sudden concern – and she groaned fearfully as she began to rise into the air.

“Oh no!” She cried out, knees straining to bear the weight of her top-heavy body, and soon (very gradually and carefully), they were gliding ever higher towards the great body of airborne land. There was no pleasure to be found in the trip, the young creature found no rest or joy in the phenomenon – she was as much a part of the land as grass and trees, and to fly from earth’s sanctuary was most disconcerting. When at last the surreal tufts had released her, carried her to a rolling field of green and dissolved, Fig dared not move. Her bearings were all but lost, and the body plant with its sprawling lush canopy above shivered. Where was the snow? Cautious eyes roamed down through a valley which seemed not too far away, and she was startled to find a hive of activity – so different to the near empty landscape below.

She lingered in place for a long while, well into the cold evening.


(Any, @[Resplendence])