Fig

They made it back in good enough time – as fast as a hefty Lignea could travel – and already there were swarms of horses gathered before the God of the Earth.

Fig cast her warm brown eyes between their patchwork patterns and diverse colours, drinking in the glamour with a stiffened tongue. Prim’Sylva had no resemblance to the characters that so arrogantly roamed the plains of Helovia – they were a conservative race, quiet, and dressed accordingly. Cold roots draped like a blanket down the side of her barrel pressed close against her pale friend. Fig was glad to have found Laedere in the midst of pandemonium, her head seemed steady, thoughtful and her manner was not as brash as those scurrying around.

With the pale mare close, she moved to follow the tide of the crowd as they moved nearer towards the God, spilling around him like floodwaters around high-ground. They ended up before him, beside the monstrosity that was being crafted, and the tree-girl’s bewildered gaze glazed over at the sight of living trees warping and twisting to form its curved bottom. A bubble caught in her throat, and the leaves spread over head seemed to shiver nervously. But they were soon on their way again under new instruction – they were to use the bucket provided to collect water. Fig was glad that at least she would not starve; presumably they would be asked to fetch flora next, but the thought made her cringe and her mind sting with reluctance.

“If you like, hang the bucket from a branch – one that seems thicker.” There would be many for the other mare to choose from, if she picked one too lithe it would slip beneath weight and the God’s bucket would slide right off.

With the bucket safe and swinging in her canopy, they hurried north to the land that Laedere mentioned – a waterfall being perhaps the ideal source for their bounty. The journey took them a solid half day, and Fig was awfully grateful that her friend was not particularly bothered by her snail’s pace. In her homeland, there was no need to hurry in such a way, and it felt extraordinarily unnatural as she hustled along – not to mention the constant tangle of her branches with that of the vast forests. By the time to roar of water filled her ears, the young Lignea was quite exhausted, and paused at length to catch her breath.

There was them hum of voices nearby – it came from the mountain actually – and she tipped an ear forward curiously to listen. “Laedere?” she whispered... “You don’t suppose the mountain is speaking to us do you?” Often times she had spoken with fellow trees, so the concept did not strike her as absurd. She cast a curious look by the winged mare and smiled.