Once, this place had been home to him. These trees, this dirt and leaf litter; he had grown up among them. He had once known the paths, and the trails. He had walked them freely, though cautiously. He had known this place, known the words of the trees and the rocks, and known his brothers and sisters of the forest; the birds, the squirrels, the otters and the mice. Even the foxes would grant him company, now and again.The wood he knew was gone. The trees had become vile, twisted and cruel. They had dropped their leaves for the men that hunted them. The animals had gone, fled from their homes in the branches of those trees to some place else, for no animal was safe within that redwood forest. Everything seemed darker, and more sinister, and no longer held the same warmth and glow that it once did. Even the plants seemed to curl and wither, and hardly anything grew under the blanket of ash that coated the earth. The had burned part of the forest in an attempt to smoke more unicorns out. He remembered that night, where the air became poisonous and the sky turned black. He remembered the ropes, the shouts of men and the screams of unicorns all around him. He remembered the trip to the auction house, the fear, the stage, the commotion. He remembered the trip on the floating ship, down to the lands below.
A moment of panic struck him, and he quickened his pace. Sweat rolled down his neck and shoulders, and steam rose from his withers as he kept his trot in the chilly morning air. His throat burned, and his eyes watered, but neither of these things stopped him. He had to get away. They were coming for him. He had jumped the fence at the auctions days ago, and before that, he had been on that same, floating ship, heading up. He was to be traded, though for what, he wasn't sure. All he knew was the pen, and that the fence was not nearly as tall as it had been the first time he had been at the auctions, and that he knew this time around. He knew that his chances of being taken were slim. When you were given up, you were no longer useful. He had taken the route west, towards the mountains, and run as fast as he could.
The large expanse of wood on the other side of those mountains terrified him. They were not redwood trees - they were harsher, and not as tall, and prickly. He could hear birds, and mice, and see squirrels as they leapt through the branches overhead, but this, too, was over stimulus, and he moved faster, and faster. It came to a point that he was moving in a full on gallop, the whites of his eyes showing as foam built up on the corners of his mouth, flecking the golden, leather bridle. They were going to catch him. They were going to catch him, and then they were going to kill him. Oh, Great Mother, help him!
