Fig

Lost and disorientated...

Her arrival in the north upon the frostbitten tundra was not at all planned. Perhaps stopping to speak with the rather shy pine of the northern Threshold about the murmured secrets of the wind was not such a fine thing. She had wandered between them four hours, trying in earnest to stimulate any sort of conversation, but alas they were not so forthcoming like the old woods of Prim’sylva. Then, when she had wandered much too far through snow and rubble, she had not been able to find a path back! She hummed her dismay quietly and glumly, though only the whispering icy breath of late winter answered.

To the west, sheer jagged cliffs rose – the face of a mountain that offered little comfort, and still less sunlight to warm her. Fig felt the chill of the tundra soak between the thick coat of roots, and though her skin was warm, her heart shivered with eerie discontent. As she dithered between directions, yearning only to be back amongst the trees, she heard the soft echo of voices nearby – as though stone was built around. That was the direction she began in, wishful that the owner might be able to perhaps lend their knowledge of the area or better still guide her to safety.

It was not to be though, and only the grim scene of death greeted her.

She held her breath and dared not enter the ice tomb. Other’s had been recently, the scuff of many hooves riddled the doorway, but alas Fig had been too late. It seemed she had a tendency for finding these murders and the lives of the fallen couple here, she mourned sadly with clenched eyes. She and three others had been trying in earnest to find the criminal (a task most apart from the truth of her Helovian journey), and she knew again she would need to assess the scene for evidence. After a deep gasp, she stepped forward with a lowered face to investigate. There was a mare who looked beautiful even in death – though wounded she was, with painful punctures all over. Beside her lay a stallion, a lover perhaps whose frozen pelt bore sign of their struggle; Fig thought, to protect the owner of his heart.

There was white downy feathers strewn around, and not much else. Reluctantly the tree-girl took one and buried it safely beneath the roots draped heavily down her left shoulder.

All she needed to do was find her way back south...

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Four Strangers
Fig
Parelia
Ira
Kirah