Fig

It was neither in the hefty young Lignea’s nature or capacity to hurry to the meeting ground where obviously Kahlua the Sunshower was waiting. The winged serpent who accompanied the painted queen in recent times could be heard throughout the forest, cawing and croaking, and creating enough of a ruckus to stir peaceful ancestors from their rest, and it was not long at all until his glistening form discovered her basking in a glade, as well. Fig had learned enough about Helovians to understand that companions were often sent in such a fashion – presumably because many were flighted, far swifter than four legged equine variations, and also easy to manipulate. Though she respected the strange customs of the population she dwelt between, it pleased her none to know of their slave tactics.

Almost as soon as the dragon had been spotted, she had turned to pick an awkward path (round a bout in fact), back towards the assembly-ground.

The going was tough. Tallsun’s fury was relentless, far crueller than the seasons of Prim’sylva where forests diluted the sun’s potency and rain fell reliably. Sweat soaked her shaggy hide, hidden beneath layers of curtain-roots, and her lungs fought hard the humidity which choked her of breath. In recent weeks she often wondered if all of the territories in Helovia were so unkind; but the tree-girl knew too, that she had not the heart to abandon those who had accepted her so kindly into their midst. She reminded herself daily that it could so easily have been a desert dweller that plucked her from the borderland and that she was lucky Kahlua had come in their stead.

The trees around her, old and resilient, seemed to wilt beneath the awful heat. The sprawling branches of her own canopy danced to the rhythm of her stride, tangling often with the weary forest, and always she apologised and worked to free her bind without damage to either tree. After a good hour, more (but no less), Fig heard the hum of voices – a female voice – and she picked quickly Moon Goddess from the fluid stream of words. So too was another speaking as she pulled up behind the bulk of the standing bodies, a flaxen maned mare, and thickly furred ears twisted forward to listen.

They were speaking of a journey (or this soul was), and Fig mused quietly about the name – quite unfamiliar to her. She knew of the desert, Dragon’s Throat, thanks to the young lad Rhoa who lived there and also that a land lay nestled at the foot of the mountains somewhere north of the Threshold. Never though had she been made aware of the Aurora Basin. Perhaps, if she made her interest known when the time was proper, they might suggest she accompany the party – but Fig had not the confidence to interrupt their business; not when she had arrived in such poor time.