The forest hand't changed in a long, long time. The stag's thoughts turned to this as he plodded along, enjoying the sights and sounds of his home. The inhabitants had, but the forest had not. A sense of finality washed over the black and white coat Moss once again wore. All-in-all, he was trying to justify his return to his old appearance. It seemed to be working well. Why did I feel a need to change, if the forest hadn't? Rueful feelings stirred in his deep chest. The toxicity wasn't toward anyone but himself, though. Years now, and he had tried to change himself so many times that the deer had lost count. All of that was for naught. The echo in his head made Moss turn back his white ears for a moment as he stopped to the left of a favored tree.

The stag sat with his back to the First Forest and face toward the Playground. A soft noise was made when he bedded down. Nothing changed just because he was here. Everything went on as was normal for the Forest. Somewhere deep inside the stag was a nagging thought: I am required to change just to keep up with how they change. A small amount of bile rose with the cud that the stag wished to ruminate on. The stag's upper lip crinkled a bit as he swallowed the concoction back down. That thought is toxic to who I am. The ugly feelings were brushed to the side, not completely gone but not all there. The only thought in the stag's head was to lay his crown on the forest floor.

The ground was cool and lightly wet. Moss would protect the same-named stag from a muddy face. The two-toned hart scanned the base of the grass in front of him with his dark eyes. Everything needs a base to start from. It was a kind of eureka moment, if there ever was one. Carefully now, the bases of the grass were really studied. Everything was white and dark. Grass was green, but the base was white and dark.

A grunt escaped from his half-opened mouth before he shut it with an audible click of back molars. Purple was the tongue that poked from his mouth to lick his lips. Moss once again raised his head. One antler clicked against the tree he rested next to. It reminded him of the fawn that had told him not to change. Fawns knew a lot that was lost to the jadedness of adulthood. He should have listened.

Squinting against the light, Moss looked up at the tree. Its branches spread wide to touch those of nearby giant plants. They didn't change in color, but were tipped with green leaves. Each touch of the trees was as delicate as the leaves were. They didn't need to be rough, nor did they have to change. I don't. He had always felt inferior due to his dislike for fighting. That dislike even transcended into a sort of power of protection. I don't even need that. The stag's face grew disgusted for a moment at the thought. I don't have to. He shook his head, the same antler clacking loudly against the same tree. Moss grunted. It didn't feel good.

All in all, it seemed that changing himself to suit others only led to problems. He did not need to be any better than anyone else. He had no need to justify himself to anyone else. Moss could touch others as gently as the trees, and still be just as capable of blocking out the sun. That was fine.

I'm fine the way I am.

And with that, the feeling of needing to change washed away under a wave of certainty.

Moss smiled.