There was far less urgency fuelling her stride this time and though the memory of that macabre death lingered still at the forefront of her young, impressionable and gentle mind, it was not fear that drew her from the nice enough acquaintances she had found upon the island in the sky. Sucking nostrils could find naught but the burning, bitterly chilled air, all trace of those who might have passed along before her had been lost, and even the worn path winding north beside the ice-river she flanked offered no sign of the life she knew existed. She was entirely vulnerable though fear was a feeling she had never known, it was yet to overwhelm her tranquil dignity.

Fig had not slept since her return to Helovia nearly a week earlier, and fatigue was written through every facial furrow, through the wilt of the leaves in the lush, vast canopy swaying above her; even her already heavy, dawdling gait had slowed. Her theory to return to the Threshold (one of three places she was comfortably familiar with) and begin her search from there, had been stalled unexpectedly, tempted off course, when the grand shadow of a snow-trimmed forest rose to the east of the path she was following. How could she resit, naturally? Shining eyes, as green as the olive foliage fluttering overhead, searched the twisted, naked branches which seemed so lifeless and cold beneath winter’s wrath.

The cautiously brave young Lignea stepped from the security of her path. Keep me safe, she muttered.

Although the tangled roots of gluttonous pines riddled the snow-coated soil beneath, Fig remained ever hopeful that the life of her own blood, her soul plant, was hidden within – somewhere deeper than this crude fringe. She entered with baited breath, falling further beneath gnarled shadow and the early morning dimness. Though supple wood wrapped snugly around her glossy black shoulders, draping like a blanket’s skirt beyond her knees and cloaked tall, pointed hips, her bones still ached as the cold sank beneath warm skin. It seemed only to intensify the further into the forest she delved, and she yearned for each dusty shaft of weak light as she passed through shivering, but she was never deterred, not once afraid.

“The forests of Prim’sylva are so unlike this...” She began to explain in her slow, soft, deep accent, speaking of course to those trees who were her only company at the time, “I will tell you about the rainforests of our Arborun kinfolk if you like?” ...and the towering limbs above creaked restlessly, dormant.

“Oh, there are many pines among us also, but we tend mainly to dwell with those of our own genus- that is not to say conifers like yourself, and ficus cannot live harmoniously of course, we both enjoy warmth and moisture.

I miss the humidity of home, you know...” she mentioned offhandedly.

“There is an unrivalled, ethereal beauty throughout the world of Prim’sylva. Perhaps it is the perfect symmetry between the races of the Lignea, of all flora and the fauna; and the lack of war, sickness and suffering among us. Time passes by slowly and adventure is a thing woven only through the countless fairly tales learned by the young, the saplings. Of course many believe this to be enough, but rumours from the outside have unsettled us – talk of conflict, corruption and chaos; creatures like the ones of this land are spreading like disease with their morbid tendencies and destructive beliefs.

Yes, that is why I am here.

Nepenthes, Corocottas visited the Prim’sylvan elders. I was to embark on a quest, to find this land called Helovia, to learn about horses wielding bone on their faces and avian wings, they want me to teach the ways of the Lignea so that perhaps the world can be saved.” Fig glanced around her then quickly and whispered still more quietly, “My soul plant is hidden somewhere in Helovia but I can’t feel its warmth. I am trying to find it...” she wished not to draw attention to the young tree's existence, to bring upon it the wicked eyes of those fabled. If it should be damaged, still worse destroyed, she would suffer the same fate. It was the young Lignea’s duty to discover the soul plant’s whereabouts and keep it safe always.

There was a sound suddenly that caused Fig to stop entirely, and with ears swivelling forward to listen, she held her breath. The melancholy cry of a raven (or a crow as they called them back home) not far away, split the early stillness and its fluttering wings unsettled her calm confidence. Naively curious, the creature strayed into the thicket and found immediately that her extravagant canopy began to intertwine with the old trees of the forest. Snow fell with a thud from above, spilling between the roots layered sloppily across her rump, wetting the skin beneath so that she felt still colder than before. Still the bird cawed angrily, and Fig was compelled forward to investigate, fighting the grip of entanglement as carefully as she could manage with long, powerful strides.

Ahead, fluttering wings revealed the bird’s ascent and the sleek blur of black vanished into the tree tops and with an upturned face she watched it go.

A short time later another appeared before her, a face fashioned with bone, emotionless, expressionless- and alarmingly, the body which followed was as black as the fine hairs set into the blood on that corpse. “Oh!” She exclaimed, robust legs halting quickly to stiffen should the need to hold ground (her only real defence) arise. The stallion was almost as unusual as she, and certainly not the sort she had anticipated crossing paths with. “Where is your face?” She blurted quickly, confused, her meaning innocent enough. She could see as her face wandered nearer, that the sockets sunk into ivory were hauntingly empty, and her skin immediately began to crawl.