More come. And more. And more. Now you're lost, drowning in a sea of faces. They vary like wildflowers, each stranger and more colorful than the last: horns, wings, cloven hooves, young voices and old clamoring excitedly at the tree. The presence of each batters you like a wave, and maybe some part of your brain cries, run, but the other parts are stifled, drowning in it all. Dark eyes swivel in your delicate face as you search in vain for something to recognize, but it's all a collage of horse. "Hey," one of the voices hisses directly into your ear, and with a start, you turn to blink at a girl you might remember if your soul weren't already crawling out of your ears. "What's going on?" Hell if you know, right? Your mouth sort of opens to answer, but she's already gone.
Then the tree talks.
I'd like to say you take this in stride, but I simply can't stretch the truth so far. What happens, really, is a full-body twitch that goes from the soles of your hooves to the end of your propped tail: you hop and twist at the same time, a near-inaudible grunt of air forced from your lungs. And then your black eyes lock on the face behind the needles. You hadn't really expected it to talk. A part of you still struggles to reconcile this evidence of sentience with everything you know about trees. Maybe this isn't really a tree? Maybe it's something else? Maybe they've all been silently watching you the whole time, judging? Hating? Self conscious to the core, you listen to the tree's demands in rapt silence, forgetting for a little bit the others jam-packed in around you. You dare not take your attention from the fir again — not even for a moment. Not until it hands you a task, at least.
Well, collective you, in this case. It asks the group at large, as if you've all been gathered here for the same purpose: collect berries, nuts, seeds. You can do that, can't you, Virga? A slow nod moves the delicate features of your face. Already, a few others begin to disperse. Some ask questions first. Your ears twitch at the sound of their voices, and slowly you back away, tucking your small body into the forest and moving at a purposeful trot between the other trees. Never in your life have you been mindful of the trunks and branches as you are now, your eyes scouring the forest floor for prizes within reach. Eventually you do find something: a thicket of bushes hung with the sweet smell of ripe fruit. Maybe too ripe, you think, as you reach out with soft lips to probe at the nearest dark berry. Sweet and tart, the taste of its juice cascades pleasantly over your tongue as the lightest touch bruises the soft flesh. Well, it tastes good. You hope the birds and other creatures will agree as gingerly, you pluck the nearest berry and nestle it in the crook of a wing. You're about to take another when you pause, your ears twitching once more, and remember the face in the tree and wonder if bushes, too, can have faces.
Better safe than sorry.
"Uhm." Head cocked, you regard the branches doubtfully. "I need these," you explain, brows furrowed. You sense no answer forthcoming, but you add quiet reasoning, all the same, in case the bush really does resent the literal fruits of its labor being stripped. "For little animals. Please. Thank you." With a brief nod, you continue picking, your tail wiggling as you scrabble under branches and crane that elegant neck of yours up and around, trying not to spill any of the prize you've already collected. When you can't carry anymore, you return to the fir, your pace agonizingly slow so as to avoid harming your precious fruit. This is what it wanted, yes? You hope so as you inch near the piles others have already created and tilt the berries to rest with the other offerings. Even with the berries gone, their juice leaves both side and wing feathers sticky sweet; a glance at the stains (hardly visible) and you wince, grimace, step away. Together you've all brought enough food, surely? You turn to the tree again, wanting to ask but a little afraid of its temper. "Mm..." You can do it, Virga. "Like this...?" you wonder, your voice little more than a mumble. You don't quite want to make another trip, sticky and sweet-smelling as you are, but if you must...
|
.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
⇒
[DROP] it's harvest time!! [Common SS]
