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At a pace to rival the ravenous prowl of a slug, Fig found herself drawn from the safe borders of the World’s Edge once again. While she was still yet to find her beloved soul plant here, somewhere within this rolling, rainbow Helovian landscape, hers remained a restless heart. The voice of one Prim’sylvan elder, Oak, rang forever through her mind...
‘Seek your soul Fig, but never let another know its worth; never bring the cruel eyes of that race to fall upon it!’
... It was only one of the quests entrusted to her by the Animal God Corocottas and the Plant God Nepenthes, but it was easily the most important to her personally, and the one that pressed heavily against her mind. This vast world she had discovered however was a violent contrast to the quiet harmony she was well accustomed to and though she was yet to feel the wrath of shredding fear (an emotion relatively unknown in Prim’sylva), nervousness tickled constantly her thick, black furred hide.
As powdery grey remnants of the previous night’s blizzard began to melt from the sky at last, Fig emerged from the old coniferous forest that grew steady between the likes of the Threshold and her sanctuary, World’s Edge (or Edge of the World as she often confused it).Thick, fresh snow lay in thick drifts across the earth and as she stepped with baited breath into it, her heavy feathered hooves sank deeply. The young, spiritual creature could not tell whether grass or soil gathered beneath, and it pained her to think she might be in fact treading upon life – that which so crudely fed the populations of this land.
She prayed silently to Nepenthes, asking always for a safe path and his guiding touch, and faithfully she continued until at last the familiar bark of Threshold pines and snow-laden firs grew all around. The area had been one she had skimmed over recklessly before, and for some reason she had felt a stirring urge to return. Perhaps (although for now she was quite oblivious), it would in time become one of her most frequented locations for the sake of the herd she would grow to adore.
“I need water...” she though aloud suddenly, feeling the weight of fatigue descend without warning; although she had not fed from a stream for as long as she could remember, and that was probably why. Fig never grazed upon the living like the folk of Helovia, such behaviour was abhorred by the Lignea – to them it was cannibalism. Instead she drew energy from the lifeless water, and her lush canopy photosynthesised the glorious warm rays of the sun.
At once the large equine-like nostrils to the end of her face flared, inhaling deeply the burning cold air. There was no hint of flowing water to taste and she set off again slowly, ploughing through the snow, to search – but she did not find what she had expected to. Ahead, near the centre of a sunlit glade, stood the very unusual figure of a dragon-winged horse! “Oh my!” She exclaimed, surprised and rather in awe (because thus far she had only seen wings like that of the avian sort). Fig ambled forward and her branches shook as they pulled free from the canopy of the forest. “Hello there!” The young Lignea called out, noting quickly that the mare’s dark lashes were sealed tightly together.
‘Seek your soul Fig, but never let another know its worth; never bring the cruel eyes of that race to fall upon it!’
... It was only one of the quests entrusted to her by the Animal God Corocottas and the Plant God Nepenthes, but it was easily the most important to her personally, and the one that pressed heavily against her mind. This vast world she had discovered however was a violent contrast to the quiet harmony she was well accustomed to and though she was yet to feel the wrath of shredding fear (an emotion relatively unknown in Prim’sylva), nervousness tickled constantly her thick, black furred hide.
As powdery grey remnants of the previous night’s blizzard began to melt from the sky at last, Fig emerged from the old coniferous forest that grew steady between the likes of the Threshold and her sanctuary, World’s Edge (or Edge of the World as she often confused it).Thick, fresh snow lay in thick drifts across the earth and as she stepped with baited breath into it, her heavy feathered hooves sank deeply. The young, spiritual creature could not tell whether grass or soil gathered beneath, and it pained her to think she might be in fact treading upon life – that which so crudely fed the populations of this land.
She prayed silently to Nepenthes, asking always for a safe path and his guiding touch, and faithfully she continued until at last the familiar bark of Threshold pines and snow-laden firs grew all around. The area had been one she had skimmed over recklessly before, and for some reason she had felt a stirring urge to return. Perhaps (although for now she was quite oblivious), it would in time become one of her most frequented locations for the sake of the herd she would grow to adore.
“I need water...” she though aloud suddenly, feeling the weight of fatigue descend without warning; although she had not fed from a stream for as long as she could remember, and that was probably why. Fig never grazed upon the living like the folk of Helovia, such behaviour was abhorred by the Lignea – to them it was cannibalism. Instead she drew energy from the lifeless water, and her lush canopy photosynthesised the glorious warm rays of the sun.
At once the large equine-like nostrils to the end of her face flared, inhaling deeply the burning cold air. There was no hint of flowing water to taste and she set off again slowly, ploughing through the snow, to search – but she did not find what she had expected to. Ahead, near the centre of a sunlit glade, stood the very unusual figure of a dragon-winged horse! “Oh my!” She exclaimed, surprised and rather in awe (because thus far she had only seen wings like that of the avian sort). Fig ambled forward and her branches shook as they pulled free from the canopy of the forest. “Hello there!” The young Lignea called out, noting quickly that the mare’s dark lashes were sealed tightly together.
