The forest is older than Rose from the River’s wood-nature. True, she was decanted from her vat-womb before the seeds of the eldest trees here were shaped and sown beneath the lonely sun, but while she lay entombed and imprisoned beneath Mount Hoa in the Eight Trigram Coffin, the trees learned well here the secrets of wood: of growth, of life which ends in death, of death which brings forth life again, of interconnected networks, of seeds and their transformation. The world is shadow-dappled beneath the boughs, and low things grow between the trunks, bushes and creeping vines and delicate white flowers, and there is birdsong lilting from branch to branch, and there are great grey moths who settle here and there and fan their wings slowly, and fat red squirrels who chitter their many outrages as Rose from the River winds her way between the trees.

To her eyes alone, there is a golden ribbon that cuts through the world. In the trackless wood, it can only tell her the straightest, the most direct path. Leaves crackle briefly underfoot as she weaves her way through the wood, a continuous rushing motion, fierce and fearful to behold, more dangerous than bear or wolf. Her eyes catch the light filtered through dark leaves, and the flash of gold in her dark face is startling enough that were there any to look and catch a glimpse, they might think her some terrible predator of the wood, and they might not entirely be wrong. Her limbs might as well be branches, flexible and strong; her braids sway like the vines which catch in the wind, and she moves as quickly as the squirrels on the branches and as smoothly as the snake which darts from log to log.

If only she could stay here a while and listen! Each wood has its own song. This one is thick-trunked, strong-crowned, and the earth beneath rises and falls like a frozen wave, and so too the trees learn to shift their footing and grip the earth strongly to avoid disaster. But even disaster has its role, its purpose: fat black insects chew rotten bark on a fallen trunk, moss-draped, and scurry into hiding as Rose lightly vaults over it, pushes off it, veers left where the ribbon goes straight on through a thicket. Mushrooms sway in the wake of her passage, grown where the body of a small bird fell; now bone and feather are both gone, and only the mushrooms remain. The world around her is pregnant with meaning that should be interpreted and understood, if only she had the time. But she does not. Not if she wants to grab a fox by the scruff of her collar and discuss a certain upcoming deal, and instructions for how to carry it out. Steal from her, will they? Steal her Chen? She’ll teach them about foxes, make no mistake.

Then she stops, suddenly struck by instincts, and considers her path. It has brought her to a depression in the earth, overlooked by what once was a statue. It was done in a severe style, but wind and rain and faint sunlight and time have worn the corners soft and mild. There is only the faint impression of a face, and there is only the faint impression of a sword held close and low, point downwards, enveloped in fabric by the end (or else the point itself has simply been worn away completely). The hollow is clay-walled, root-matted, and it would take her but a moment to cross at a lope. But here, the birds have grown quiet. Sunlight streams down upon the statue’s head, and breaks into a numinous haze, a halo never dreamed by its maker. The underbrush is thick on either side, spilling over the lips.

Will0 cocks her head curiously; Rose from the River raises one finger to where she perceives the sprite’s lips to be. Her breath is still, her sudden flight brought to complete silence. The world aches for that silence to be broken, and she will not miss that moment when it comes. “I will owe you,” she subvocalizes, mouth moving noiselessly. The ribbon throbs as it snakes down through the hollow, telling her to rush on, to find her vulpine prize. But route generation systems are simple, and they never were good at recognizing danger.

Staff on her shoulder in deceptively casual form, Rose from the River walks down into the earth, letting it rise on either side to the height of her shoulders. The statue stands impassive as roots rustle beneath her bare feet. Her breath is silent. Her heart is silent. The world swells with the anticipation of noise. And in that moment, when it comes, Rose from the River will not be taken by surprise.