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11-28-2014, 08:55 PM
Though Fig grew comfortable in her new home, World’s Edge, and began quickly to forge friendships with the creatures that lived through the misty forest around her, she was restless, unable to still her legs while still the whereabouts of her Soul Plant was unknown.
She woke to the tune of birds returning, the joyful chatter and bright song of celebration - the season was slowly beginning to turn and the days rolling by held not the same bitterness of midwinter (or so the Lignea called it). Groggy eyes peeled open to glance by the green pine awning above and they found for the first time since her return, that the swollen clouds had dissolved into the blue of day. A smile almost as brilliant as the morning spilt through her shaggy features. Praise the Gods! she thought cheerfully, stretching stiff limbs to life beneath and the leafy mass upon her shivered with excitement.
The young Lignea moved then naturally, gradually, to bask in the undiluted warmth of the sun, branches twisting through the knotted arms of the forest as she passed beneath, catching, snagging; a difficulty she had been yet to resolve.
There was an exposed pasture nearer to the cliffs (the place she still foolishly thought to be the very end of the world), and though a wet white sheet lay across it, Fig had not this far been able to find any place more open within the fallen glass wall. With a final pull, gently so as not to fracture the delicate timber’s fingers, the young black tree-girl strode at last into freedom and ventured far into the middle so that her own flourishing canopy might revel in the new day and feed off the sun’s lovely rays. She was hungry, though it barely showed beneath thick mats and a heavy coat (certainly her Body Plant absorbed any nutrients it needed firstly), because the cold months did not favour plants, fields and forests - unsurprisingly. She did not graze like the Helovian’s around her, such would be despicable, cannibalistic! The only means she had to feed was by the photosynthesis of sunlight, the shimmering, glossy foliage above; or sipping water frequently, so that she might not starve and wither away like the leaves of last spring.
Drawing a long, deep breath, Fig settled herself down to doze – she would not shun this gift, this feast after so many dreary, grey days – and the melodious banter of gathering birdlife filled her heavy ears.
She woke to the tune of birds returning, the joyful chatter and bright song of celebration - the season was slowly beginning to turn and the days rolling by held not the same bitterness of midwinter (or so the Lignea called it). Groggy eyes peeled open to glance by the green pine awning above and they found for the first time since her return, that the swollen clouds had dissolved into the blue of day. A smile almost as brilliant as the morning spilt through her shaggy features. Praise the Gods! she thought cheerfully, stretching stiff limbs to life beneath and the leafy mass upon her shivered with excitement.
The young Lignea moved then naturally, gradually, to bask in the undiluted warmth of the sun, branches twisting through the knotted arms of the forest as she passed beneath, catching, snagging; a difficulty she had been yet to resolve.
There was an exposed pasture nearer to the cliffs (the place she still foolishly thought to be the very end of the world), and though a wet white sheet lay across it, Fig had not this far been able to find any place more open within the fallen glass wall. With a final pull, gently so as not to fracture the delicate timber’s fingers, the young black tree-girl strode at last into freedom and ventured far into the middle so that her own flourishing canopy might revel in the new day and feed off the sun’s lovely rays. She was hungry, though it barely showed beneath thick mats and a heavy coat (certainly her Body Plant absorbed any nutrients it needed firstly), because the cold months did not favour plants, fields and forests - unsurprisingly. She did not graze like the Helovian’s around her, such would be despicable, cannibalistic! The only means she had to feed was by the photosynthesis of sunlight, the shimmering, glossy foliage above; or sipping water frequently, so that she might not starve and wither away like the leaves of last spring.
Drawing a long, deep breath, Fig settled herself down to doze – she would not shun this gift, this feast after so many dreary, grey days – and the melodious banter of gathering birdlife filled her heavy ears.
