Fig

For a young Lignea in a new fantasy land, it was hard to remain entirely focused on only one thing. Curious gaze began to roam from the point between the littered undergrowth and old-wood trunks from whence she had assumed the other’s call to have come. The sun seeped through the sparse pine canopy in thin, dancing shafts; warped, moving spotlights across the carpet that illuminated both dust and the flurrying activity of insects. Their erratic motion bothered Fig’s attention, not letting it rest for a moment, and she wondered with forward tipped ears, great obsidian nostrils flaring with each pensive breath, just what on earth they were up to.

The elders of Prim’sylva wove fascinating tales about those smallest inhabitants of the world. There was no place ants, mosquitoes, cockroaches and the like, could not occupy; though seemingly insignificant in a land of giants, wonderful magic and corruption, their role was perhaps the most important of all.

A flash of movement ahead drew her eye suddenly back, and all concentration resumed on that point; a shadowy blur, perhaps brown smeared between rough foliage. Another call rang through the stillness, and the approaching shadow took form. It was another draft, heavy, rippling sinew wrought around a thick, sturdy frame and Fig smiled brightly as she arrived, admiring keenly the whirl of ebony tendrils that came in turn to settle draped around face and broad shoulders. “Hello! she offered eagerly in return, and paused to heed the pleasant strangers next words – but she paused, and quiet green gaze flicked steadily, receptively between eyes of shining black.

Not to worry. The other mare soon found again her voice, and Fig sighed heavily the breath which had caught in her lungs in anticipation. The young tree-girl was more than used to the strange customs of Helovians (although she knew by now too, that any happened upon these parts mostly came from afar) – and one such tradition was to look first, and then speak. In Prim’sylva, conversation could span a day or more so there was reason to delve right into business; everyone looked mostly the same as well. Undeterred by the increasingly curious manner of her company, she introduced herself, tone deep and earthy, mirroring the ancient line from which her bloodline stemmed.

“Well met Kestrel. I am Fig, Philosopher of World’s Edge.” Ordinarily she would not have followed with a title, but Kestrel was the third in as many weeks to suggest its importance in such meetings at this. “This place in the Threshold forest, and it is one of many regions in Helovia.” Although Fig had not lived in Helovia long (months only), she had gained a well rounded base of knowledge now to draw from. “Where have you travelled from,” she asked then with ever growing interest.