They skirted the village carefully, wisely, avoiding the hustle and the bustle of the tightly gathered Helovians who were still all to alien to find any true comfort beside. As the soft warmth of the sun touched the gentle flutter of hungry, wind-brushed leaves, Fig found herself wondering about them all again, intrigued by the volume of the culture they now witnessed and she was more than overwhelmed by the flurry of activity to behold. So quietly unhurried was the flow of life in Prim'sylvia, that the celebration below (soon she would learn this to be just that), seemed still more violent than a tropical evening storm. With glazed eyes and wary curiosity she watched, and the young Lignea wandered ever so gradually down a track already worn between lush pastures.

Her tread, heavy and slow, avoided the grass - the swishing tufts and the smiling faces of bright yellow dandelions - quite deliberately. It was the principle of her kind to respect always any life surrounding, and she was always careful to uphold a duty of care. That which may have seemed insignificant, or those perhaps overlooked altogether by the creatures of this new world (like the moss softening a stony cliff face or tender ‘shrooms breaking down the fallen elder trees of thousand year old forests), drew her doting attention and she could do naught but cringe when ignorant, uneducated beings ravished the land they were let to dwell upon.

There was so much they needed to learn, and that was one of two reasons that Fig had been sent on this seemingly impossible journey from the safe, tranquil Prim’sylvia.

The plant towering above rocked rhythmically backwards and forwards as her awkward looking body swayed along. She began to hum a soft tune, the spirituality story of whom uplifted her mood immediately, and caused a smile to bloom across slack black lips. The rising cheer though soon faded when she at last came across a group gathered, and her step slowed (if it were possible). They were a strange, surreal bunch – some grand-looking, large and embellished, but Fig was taken aback by one thing they all shared in particular, the overbearing concern and sadness seemingly suspended like a cloud around them. It was written along the lines of their bodies, etched through expressions and pungent, clinging to the air between them.

Naturally her focus was drawn to the greater four amongst them and with a gently discerning eye she discovered the source of the apprehension. Her white blazed face creased with grief instantly and downy ears flattened overhead either of her dark olive tinged eyes. To the centre of their meeting lay the corpse of another similar to them – a person of Helovia, and perhaps one that had been cherished dearly in life. This was morbid to say the least.

Quickly she blinked, turning her face both respectfully and glumly from the scene. It was almost more than she could bear to see death, so crude and violent, when all she knew (all that she had ever been subject to) was the peace and harmony of the Lignea.

There was a terrible sound then, like the fury of a cyclone unleashed, and the leaves sprawled throughout the canopy above her shook with fear. It was the voice of a towering stallion, his appearance, and stance – the very essence of him, exaggerated beyond many of the others. Fig’s eyes flung towards him involuntarily, and she listened carefully to all which he boomed. The revelation of the death before her, the murder, she could hardly believe, but there was no jest in the expressions nearby. Suddenly she found herself praying, desperate and confused – entirely unsure if she wanted to continue this perilous, infinite task set before her. ‘Corocottas, Nepenthes... can you hear me, please hear my prayer! I am so afraid now... These folk are strange, and cruel; they kill each other, our brothers and sisters of the earth, the grass, the flowers, and the trees! However can they be helped by humble me?

Help them, please!

Help us...’

The young Lignea turned, the grief wrought through her expressive, helpless facade. She knew that they could not forsake this request (no matter who else had pledged the same); Fig thought that they could not explore this crime alone though. “We need help...” she mumbled anxiously, unsure where even they should begin to search, and (although against the will of her trembling heart), she glanced back one last time. Again the tortured limp corpse smothered her senses and she was filled with a terrible feeling, foreboding; and she drew a long breath as she took a final moment to examine it a little closer. There were a few fine hairs mixed into the blood staining bone and hide, and should she not have taken that brief pause, breath held tight, heart pounding, they might have missed the clue altogether.

As swiftly as her tree laden body could manage then, she slipped from her position by the back of the group to reflect and recover.

---

Four Strangers
Fig
Parelia
Ira
Kirah