The fey was content she’d chosen to wander into the Threshold’s mist and midst today; the locked pathways and yielding gates always had a sense of diversion, a hold of curiosity, a state of inquisition and diversion that led her away from all the strife of midday or the haunting hours of the evening. Before she even had an opportunity to delve further into correspondence with the stranger robed in black, a familiar figure approached (one she was forever indebted and grateful to for the simple act of returning an object close to her heart; serving as another reminder, another beacon, of things that were still beautiful in this world). The Songbird yielded a full, bright, brilliant smile in return, entangled in blossoms and radiance, in beneficence and grandeur, a sense of repose, tranquility, and serenity curled through her features. “Raeden, how wonderful to see you!” She meant it, from the bottom of her blessed heart, tilting her head to study the mare for a moment, perusing, not noticing if anything had been altered in their time spent away from one another. “We’re fine,” the femme mustered thereafter, half a lie bidden between her teeth, because she didn’t want to admit to the rest of the realms that their Lord had fallen, perished, died on the banks of the unfreezing lake, and they were all still, all silent, all vigilant and waiting for a noose to slink over their throats. “I trust you’re well?” She proffered one last inquiry for the dusty-rosed hued femme, all passion and posies, before returning her focus back upon the newcomer, who’d offered his name at her request.
 
Calyndar, he’d said through rubble and stone, and she watched him carefully through the honeysuckle depth of her eyes as he maneuvered in various directions, perhaps making up for the ivory, scarred orb. She wondered how she could aid him without giving herself away, and attempted to take up a stance where his unblemished beacon could view her, them, without complaint or issue – then she simply listened. It was a task she was fond and familiar with, ears attuned and pricked, mind whirling at the sensation of voice and sound, of the convictions laced between determination and hopelessness, at apologies for time taken. Here she shook her head, the grin never faltering, still steady, stalwart, and kind, a hint of valor rising through her chest and along her throat, like dulcet, sweetened dove-tails, airy and light, trying not to press where they weren’t wanted, but still encouraging, still unrelenting. Maybe that was the source of her power, of her potency (that pervading tenacity where others gave in, faltered and stumbled, where she rose from her trials and tribulations and banked purpose along her tongue). “No apologies necessary. We’re here to help.” She indulged Raeden with a wink, a smile, and slid her gaze back to the sable stag. “Where do you wish to wander? Do you long to be by yourself? Or amongst a herd?” Imogen waved her tails as she watched the beast – but Lena had just gotten started, parting her lips again and again to indulge him in the riches of their world. “I come from the Aurora Basin, towards the north,” and she nodded against the horizon, where the mountains lingered just out of reach, tall and strong despite all of their agonies. “There are three others, including the Dragon’s Throat, Hidden Falls, and the World’s Edge,” then she glanced at the other mare again, because she’d been able to grant details of some lands the Mender could not (except from other seasons, days she’d spent in war, in prison, or begging for the release of her comrades). Perhaps something would pique his interest, and they could provide the aid he required (or ignored – it was difficult to tell what he intended, other than disappearing into the void, not wishing to be of any trouble); the only worry in the back of her mind was the possibility that he would wander into hostility, into acrimony, into the abyss, and there’d be naught left of him thereafter.