Kestrel

Voices here, but none she wants to hear.

The road behind her disappears when she bothers to look. It has grown long, a serpent coiling in the snow at her back, dead now. The road ahead crawls with shadows and the echoes of strange voices. Why does her heart lift up at the sound?

She doesn’t know them.

Still, the heavy drum beat of her gait proceeds on past the forest’s edge. Pines rise high around her, like a field of spears. The echoes disappear now – strangers gone. Did she dream it up? A friend for a homeless wanderer? A perch for a flightless bird? Kestrel’s breath is deep and ragged in her lungs; her eyelids lie heavier with every blink. She understands the deep pull of exhaustion and its danger, but she is hours from collapsing yet and spring dances like sparks across her unshed coat. The world is waking up. The sun is out. She only tenses when the songbirds rush by overhead.

Even if it’s not the destination she imagined, it is still an end. She catches the smell of horse on the trees, recent and varied, and her mind works over the fact. Maybe the forest holds answers. Maybe she will find them in the land beyond. The sliver of hope in her breast needles her thoughts. Move. Surely those voices she heard weren’t the only ones? Surely there will be more? Move. Her pace picks up despite the sweat now growing under mountains of black hair; her bowed face rises, and dark wreathes of forelock fall back to reveal black eyes, bright as gemstones.

A single trumpet’s blast; her chest shudders like a bellows, and her voice, a brass horn, bursts through the branches, scattering birds. Under the winter hair, she is a bowstring, ready to loose, but soon enough the forest is quiet again.

She lingers, wondering who will answer.

Fig

Winter’s stubborn grip on Helovia was slow to slip, even as the days at last began to lengthen and the days grew ever warmer. A cold wind harried much of her week long journey to the Threshold, blasting with renewed fury down from the ice-capped peaks to the north, but as her ambling stride neared eventually the rough line of old, raggedy pines marking the borderline of her destination, that chill failed, and naught but the beauty of ensuing Birdsong remained.

As sunlight slipped down from the far eastern horizon to split and dissolve the dark haze of night, the restless tree-girl stirred to life, and blearily she stretched the night’s stiff residue from her legs. The bright chant of a waking warbler roused her pulse to quicken with delight, and mossy-green eyes lifted to find the small creature where she sat, welcoming the new morning. She drew a deep breath and gaze lowered to search for a more spacious path through the old wood – if she could avoid entangling her lush, sprawling canopy, she would.

Joints groaned as Fig pulled forward through the small glade, though she hardly seemed to notice. She carried her body plant like any other might bear their coat; it was a part of her, an appendage that she had never lived without, though her stride was cumbersome and slow. The Lignea were a sluggish race who thrived when days passed in an unremarkable fashion, and the simplest of conversations could stretch for months. She knew nothing of war and the bitter personalities like those leaked through this land; though recently she had discovered a disturbing morbidity, and they called it murder.

There was very slight wariness as she moved finally into the forest, the villain was yet to be captured; their identity remained a mystery. Many had blessed her with warning, bidding her to take the greatest care as she moved about rolling hills and spans of wind-brushed grass. But Fig was not frightened; her mind, thoughts nor heart had never known reason for apprehension, and she carried on with life blissfully naive.

There was suddenly a trumpet through the forest. All manner of birdlife ascended to the safety of the heavens, and the obsidian tree-girl paused with nostrils lifted to test the air in true equine way. There was trace of another wafting clear above set, dormant scents, yet the path towards the call with littered with eroded roots and fallen wood – all of which Fig stood little hope of passing across. Instead she turned her lips to the sky and returned a harmonic cry riddled with naught but good-will and joy.

Kestrel

The answer rises swiftly: another voice like a brass bell, something pulled out of a deep and cavernous chest. Kestrel turns to meet the sound, her dark eyes slicing across layers of shadow and sunlight. She marks it somewhere near – a minute’s travel, maybe. No indecision slows her from approaching; the noise rang with cheer and goodwill, not a trace of threat or fear to be found. This forest must be a gathering ground; someone else must be lonely as Kestrel is.

She will meet with them, at least.

Fallen wood, soft with damp and beginning to rot, cracks beneath her hooves. Old forest, Kestrel thinks. She leaps the larger pieces with hardly a thought, the long hair dancing on her legs. If anything, the movement makes her feel alive – and at the end of it... Yes! A figure appears ahead, dark and more massive than Kestrel herself. It is no more than a shadow at first, long and warped by distance, but it becomes another draft as Kestrel nears. Joy leaps in her chest unbidden; without thinking to contain it she calls out a greeting, more than a little surprised by the boisterous stirring of her own deep voice. “Hello!” She begins to slow as she draws nearer, canter easing to a trot easing to a fluid walk, blood warm under her thick hair, mane wild above bright eyes.

“Good to see another a....” Her mouth is running before her mind manages to catch up; Kestrel falters as her eyes catch on something she didn’t notice from far off, something her mind still struggles to notice even as she looks.

Is that a... tree? Growing right out of the stranger’s back?

Kestrel swallows, surprise flaring like lightning through her blood. Not fear – not quite – but she casts a nervous glance at the other trees in the forest, and a surreptitious one at her own withers. Nothing there – yet. Good. She returns her dark eyes to the stranger and clears her throat. Is it rude to stare? She can hardly keep from doing so, though she forces her eyes to the mare’s face, and forces her voice out again. “Good to see another at last,” Kestrel clarifies. She squares her limbs, the movement betraying unease. Is the stranger.... okay? Would it be rude to ask?

She changes the subject before she can act anymore a fool. “I am Kestrel, of... no title, at the moment.” The admission stings, but it has gotten easier with practice. Her eyes shift a bit more seriously to the forest around them, uncertainty still dancing in their depths. “Can you tell me the name of this place?”

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.

Kestrel

Worry disintegrates as the conversation begins to move, words flowing like water downhill. Kestrel is attentive to the strange mare’s name and title – Fig, Philosopher. The name is strangely appropriate, Kestrel thinks, though any flicker of mirth coursing through her mind remains locked down far below the darkness of her solemn eyes. As for the title... Kestrel can only guess at what it means. She thinks on it as she nods, a polite acknowledgement of this Fig’s introduction. For some herds, for those where battle is not a necessity, some members took on roles aside from those of the soldier and the medic. Perhaps the philosopher is like this; perhaps that means peace reigns beneath these strange, tall trees.

A good omen.

Kestrel’s curiosity is sated furthermore when Fig speaks again, identifying the forest as a Threshold to some larger land, Helovia. Though it is a new name, it will be remembered now. Helovia – meaningless, to Kestrel’s tongue. No hint of what lies beyond the trees then, or the sort of creatures to be found. Dark eyes skirt the trees upon Fig’s back once more, musing. The question given by the larger mare is not ignored, though, and setting aside her concerns for the moment, Kestrel dredges up some sort of answer – something serviceable, if not impressive.

“My homeland is in the north, in a place much darker than this one. The sun does not shine as brightly, or as often.” Her voice is low, a heavy drum echoing from her broad chest. Is it enough, to only give that much? Kestrel peers up at the pale sky, meditating. Does she need a name – but what would a name matter in this alien place, this Helovia? A sigh escapes her. Memories stir like starving wolves inside her head. “I am a soldier,” she adds against her better judgment. Maybe the better word is was now she holds no rank, but Kestrel can hardly describe herself as anything else. It’s in her blood, a feeling like knives on the inside of her veins – a feeling that resists peace even here. “A traveling soldier. Without a commander.” Unhappy breath stirs from her blackened muzzle; muscle shifts over the impressive weight of her feathered limbs.

“What can you tell me of this place, Fig? Is it kind?”

Fig

The dismayed Lignea could hardly imagine a world clothed always in night’s darkness; where sunlight was an unusual blessing, and perhaps the warmth that it brought rarer still. Why, it would mean certain death! Skin beneath swaying tendrils of languid root shivered, discomforted by the thought – Fig’s very existence depended on the light and the (she had always presumed) inevitable cycle of seasons. Never had her belly known the weight of a grass meal, fruit or grain, and her tongue never craved such a taste. To feed upon the world’s flora was immoral; it was a lesson she hoped to preach through these awfully corrupt lands, to shift their primitive views for the sake of those seldom noticed, living alongside. Fig drew strength alone from the sun, her glossy, sprawling canopy absorbed and photosynthesised, and she nourished her body with water.

The smaller (in height alone) horse paused, and lifted her dark gaze to the sky. Fig followed naturally and attentively, though her thoughts lingered on unhappily in mentioned darkness; she set a brooding smile upon her lips. What would become of my family? She wondered, relieved at least that the elders had not requested her journey end there. Eyes traced a vacant path around the distant blue arc, not quite able to visualize the delicate morning as anything less beautiful. They found almost frantically the beaming sun to the east, peeking between the gentle sway of towering foliage – and Fig’s lashes shuddered defensively together as her face fell back to earth. She was confident that even a spring storm would find no bearing in such beautiful weather.

Her smaller, burly company was speaking again and the shaggy tree-girl relaxed a hind hoof beneath. “I know of a soldier,” she mentioned brightly. Had not such a considerable weight been set upon her spine, perhaps the enthusiasm might have lifted her clear off the earth. “Murdock, he is called a Protector of the Edge.” She paused then to think, to steady her thoughts so that they might stumble from her lips in better Helovian fashion... “Yes, the Edge is where I call home- it is west of here.” she gestured with a heavily whiskered nose and smiled. “Perhaps there are others like him, or a commander.” Her knowledge of military ranks was few and far between, but she nodded earnestly – absolutely positive that there would be someone at World’s Edge who might be able to talk with this soldier.

“Will you walk that way with me?”

Gullible and kind-hearted, it never crossed Fig’s mind to question motives or history. She figured too, that while the cool of the early day lingered, the journey home might be more comfortable for both – even she wearied sometimes beneath midday heat. If the other accepted her offer, she would guide them through the thinnest groves and sparsest canopies, well off the well beaten paths through the forests between the Threshold and the Edge – where others passed freely, it was much more difficult for her to manoeuvre, but she was not overly concerned about timeframes for the while. If her companion felt better in place, the young Lignea would oblige and settle herself somewhat for whatever conversation might follow. Either way, she drew a long breath and considered the dappled bay’s request.

“Helovia? When I first arrived – like you here today actually!” she chortled heartily... “A horse called Kahula led me back to World’s Edge. She and every other creature I have met there have been so kind and forthcoming. Even when I left to visit my birthplace for many months, they welcomed my return without question; having said all of that, not all who roam these lands are so pleasant.” Poor Fig sighed, visibly upset and swayed on the spot for a moment. “Horrible, unnatural deaths have been occurring. Mangled, beaten corpses are showing up wherever I travel. It is awful – I have never seen anything so morbid.” ...and it was true. In Prim’sylva, the only end of life occurred naturally and respectfully – even the hunter was never greedy, and always gave thanks for his meal. Helovia, as beautiful and fascinating as she truly believed it to be, had a dark side as well. The job ahead seemed so enormous, but Fig was resilient, patient and faithful, and she stepped from beneath such sorrow with a courageous (perhaps overly naive) heart.

Kestrel

Something in Kestrel’s speech unnerves her new acquaintance; the shiver running under heavy flesh draws attention despite its subtlety. Perhaps the Kestrel of even a few months previous would disregard such a minor reaction, but the Kestrel of today takes note, pauses for the barest instant to watch. Not of a hint of violence leaps at her, though, and she tucks the occurrence away in memory, curiosity prickling at her thoughts but firmly caged. Not now. She is wise enough to hold back the more incisive questions. Her journey has not brought her to make friends, though she appreciates the company.

Soon enough, her attention clamps its jaws around new facts: Murdock, a protector of the Edge. The World’s Edge – how great and unlikely a name. It commands yet more curiosity, and Kestrel is silent as Fig explains. This mare.... this tree-mare is either ignorant or living in a herd with so little need for military as to lack basic structure. Kestrel meditates on this, suspecting the former. How could such a heavy creature fight, after all? Trees are not made for battle, but for endurance, waiting and weathering. Kestrel has never thought of them as entities before. She feels oddly exposed now in the forest, and wonders if her previous treatment of plants was ever disrespectful. Perhaps she ought to be more careful.

Though somewhat distracted, she nods at last in answer to Fig’s invitation. It is a start; perhaps it will lead to nothing, but it is a start. “I am honored to accept the invitation,” stated bluntly in that deep voice but softened by Kestrel’s expression as she nods, her dark eyes eager. There will be much to see and to learn, she expects. Perhaps there will even be answers to the questions she keeps.

Excitement burns in her like a wild flame, but her ears twitch back to Fig when the other is speaking again. Kestrel hears most of it alongside the churn of her own thoughts, and some of her curiosity about the tree mare is answered, as well. So, she is foreign, as Kestrel is – or was, perhaps. “I’m glad to hear this,” the warrior responds. Her voice is a little warmer now than it was before. The joy, the lightness, in her new friend is infectious as well as charming. “I look forward to seeing this Edge of the world with my own eyes.”