Her mother called her Walnut. First, because she was small. When Walnut was less small, there were other reasons to call her thus. She was sweet, but secretly so; tender, though few were allowed to know. And there was power, too; great power, her birthright as a Daughter of the Enclave. A sky-piercing power.

If only she could sit still.

Her mother pretended not to be delighted by the green sap that ran so quickly in her. She may have invested herself in greater worry if she’d known how precisely the girl spent her days.

After a “bath” in the river which lasted approximately seven seconds, and the hasty, resentful assumption of a holy raiment which had remained sacred and unchanged for more than a thousand years, Walnut would find her way to the edge of the forest, there to watch the traffic on the Long Road. Little roots and vines tried to guide her, as her mother had asked them to, back where she had come. But they had promised Walnut they’d never tell where she went. Plants are this way.

Hours piled upon hours, looking out from the fringe of the Kryptgarden. She watched the carts go, wincing at the cruelties of the drivers, granting the straining beasts a portion of their old strength. She knew what every scion of her order did, that they dwelled in the last perfect place, and it was only their vigilance that kept it from being devoured also. It was hard to imagine that the reeking men and haggard beasts they tormented could ever have defeated the Enclave in the full flower of its might. There must be something she didn’t know about these people, enemies all, the children of the children of the children who had destroyed the world.

She saw one in his high carriage seat, looking at something that seemed to spark in the air. He shook his head, said something to it, and flung it over his shoulder. It landed just behind him, dancing there a moment until it pinged off when the wheel became acquainted with a rut. It leapt from the cart, winking in mid-air at Walnut and coming to rest with a puff of dust.

Walnut raised her left eyebrow at a squirrel. Every squirrel waits for this moment; he knew his business, and he was about it. It returned with the shining disc swiftly, and with great chivalry. She dropped a couple berries in payment, and when she beheld the face of the coin, her heart seized at the sight of it.

It was there, on the scuffed metal circle, broad and plain as a leaf; the sign she had so long sought. The war ever rages, and she was dressed to take part; the scimitar swayed from her belt with barely contained purpose, her crisp faulds a certainty. She let the sun read the coin, also, to make sure she’d understood. Omindran, it read; Omindran. In the comely Elven her grandmother spoke, that bent with certainty like a young bough, before all the Sylvan words had shaken out. Go in boldness, it said, and return in safety.

And she did.

Art assist today from Walnut herself, the magnificent Amy Falcone. Here’s the full scale image, minus the trappin’s.