Earth, Grigori discovered early on in his foalhood, was not the same everywhere. Textures varied, ranging from clay-like surfaces that fractured against his probing muzzle, to dark, rich soil rife with worms and small, scuttling lives. Some also proved more amenable to life than others, green stalks and sapling trees bursting from the damp ground all at once, shrugging out of the loam and reaching skyward. Some budded, flourished in an endless array of colors and sizes; others struggled and weakened and died. Grigori watched the latter solemnly from time to time, but the real appeal was in the living things, the ambitious ones that climbed high and flowered overnight. Following some malformed inheritance from his father's side, Grigori would n** the frost from his favorites, even if he received a mouthful of thorns for his pains. The tree that sat low on his spine seemed jealous in such moments, the thick roots squeezing his flank and sending a shock of displeasure straight to the twisted horn perched in the middle of his forehead. Those were the times that he had to tend to it with extra care, murmuring in a soft tone that he used on nothing else. He clipped withered, coppery leaves from its miniscule branches with his blunt teeth, swallowing the papery leavings without complaint. He could feel a difference whenever he performed such routine maintenance on his body, the tree a confusing tangle of self and other at once. Its pleasure translated roughly into his own contentment, and it seemed ill-advised to question the bond any further than that. He had seen his father tilting animal blood into the maws of his roses before, their petals darkening as fine veins became shot through with red. His tree seemed to have no such appetite, drawing whatever nutrients it needed directly from him without so much as breaking skin. It was by no means a better system than the one Genesis employed, but it meant less hunting, and the thinking creatures that came near him knew not to be afraid.
And so with the implicit consent of the local wildlife – not to mention his tree's lethargy following his attentions – Grigori allowed himself to engage in alternative forms of cultivation. The colt had selected a location close to his family’s stomping grounds, one with a wall of manzanita between it and any of the local blossom-eaters. His little seedbed had recently populated itself with sprigs of green, delicate tendrils that edged toward whatever patches of sun they cold find. He watched their progress patiently, aware that growth could not be rushed. That did not stop him from hovering when he was present, making minute adjustments and fussing where needed. After that, he moved to check the perimeter, his stare sweeping back and forth along the knotty tangles of dark red limbs. Nothing appeared disturbed. Satisfied with his inspection, Grigori tilted his head back and peered up into the canopy. A silent bid for additional light skimmed across the surface of his thoughts, but otherwise he simply drank in the sight, ears twitching as he eavesdropped on some distant celestial frequency.