A humanoid who awoke to be entombed alive would likely react with voluntary and involuntary processes. Their pulse would quicken, their hands might reflexively test the strength of the stone walls or lid, they might break out in a cold sweat, pupils dilating, teeth clenching in terror.

Anatomically, the only thing Cotyledon truly had out of the above list were hands, or at least roots and vines shaped like them. But Cotyledon lay perfectly still. There was no fear; there would be time enough for that, if the situation warranted.

Ghorans did not sleep, but they did 'die' when they were growing into a new body. Coty did not remember planting her ghorus seed recently, and if she had she expected to enter her 64th iteration exposed to sunlight and fresh air. Sometimes she entered solipsistic reveries, and briefly wondered if she were remembering being buried alive at some point in her long, long life.

The bitter soil of the Mana Wastes was tainted by centuries of arcane warfare. The hatred seeped into the very ground itself, leaving a sour taste at the edge of Cotyledon's feet. She huddled in a spell-blasted ditch, unable to tell if it were day or night. The magi-hunters from Nex knew their prey depended on sunlight, and weaved powerful magic to obscure the sky and its life-giving rays. Coty and all of her friends were weakened, three days' sun-starved. Heartwood dared to make a break for it, leaving his ditch for a copse of thorny bushes, but the humans were waiting for him. A blast of arcane fire slew him on the spot, searing his rind to 'seal the juices in.' She wanted to scream, Heartwood, dear Heartwood, her noble shield against the callous appetites, gone forever...

Heartwood was centuries dead. And yet, in a way, he lived on through the spirits. Shrine would be fine, sealed in this box; he would simply enter a torpor. Once Cotyledon might have died from lack of sunlight, but she had learned to create her own inner light, overcoming a weakness thousands of years in the making. She would be fine without proper food or water for several days; she could beseech the spirits for water in at most 24 hours, and while it was a bit gauche, she could eat the small berries that grew on her body for recycled nourishment. The only concern was airflow, but her vegetable body's requirements for nitrogen were far different from a fast-burning mammalian metabolism's need for oxygen.

Of course, how she had got here, and why, was an interesting question. But she appeared uninjured, and the fact that she had not been stripped of her equipment suggested she had not been taken prisoner. Cotyledon had been in far worse situations before. This was fine. Perhaps the spirits could offer some aid in due time.

She lay perfectly still. She was over four thousand years old. Even if her body withered and rotted, her seed would sit nascent in this stone coffin, waiting for the centuries to erode the stone capsule and release her to grow anew. With the patience of a plant she waited in the dark, meandering through more pleasant memories.