Farenjer began to take shape in her inquisitive mind; quiet, patient, calm and collected beyond the fabric and techniques of ruffians, fools or infidels, deliberate along insinuations and sentiments. Pieces of his shell, of his vessel, of his presence, still remained an infinite mystery, and she was glad of this, not daring to delve deeper into the hallowed, hollowed perils of another; such motions, motives, realities and memories were destined for them and them alone, unless the beat of their movements gave credence, gave right, to unravel the various knots and threads that made them who they were. Queries, however, still beckoned and sang siren songs along her mind: how he acquired his beautiful markings, frosty and electric, if he’d been granted gifts to wear two elements at once, if they incited and kindled bouts of lightning or the clear, crisp ruminations of rime. The nymph absorbed what she could, smiled and broadened the horizons of amiable qualities, dulcet ditties and elegant arias, coaxed and provided while he made his own study, settling upon Imogen first. At the attention, the ivory vixen twirled, at the compliment, she bowed and chirped, appreciated his ability to recognize the art of beauty, the finesse and regal regard of her heavenly form. Lena laughed, a light, airy giggle crossing over icy surroundings, breathing divinity into burdened layers of powder and seasonal reticence. “She appreciates your keen eye.” A wink extended towards the engineer, courting delight and merriment through the murky heights of caverns and mountains.

Her attention and fixations drifted to his answers to her prior questions – and more character, more qualities and properties added to his form. A creator, a mechanic, capable of building from near nothingness, and she wondered, pondered, over lovely things he could charm and cajole from the wilderness. Could he concoct items of durability, of necessity, of strength and fortitude, molded for purpose, for goals and ambitions? Glowing trinkets, symbols of devotion and motivation, made from the deepest feelings of promises, beneficence and the tender, warmhearted beloved? Ironclad armor, woven for blackguards and the mighty, the proud, the strong, another wall for enemies to fall against? Her eagerness flowed through melodic raptures and harmonious notes, stanzas dipped and drawn into radiance. “A crafter! What are you working on now? Do you need any help?” Her curious gaze settled across the bold layers of snow, but saw nothing out of place, no construction apparent across the grounds, in remnants, pieces and shards, eternally willing to help pry oeuvres from dust. Imogen’s nose went to work, sifting through the resting wake and vestige of snow, but only settled beneath Lena soon after, discovering no sliver or trace. The sylph then recalled his separate inquisition, tossing the same utterance of her profession back upon her; something she held in firm, warm regard, a purpose, a motivation, a goal and ambition given to her by the deity of the sun, scorching and brilliant, gilded and resolute. Pride chiseled into the following vocals, a day’s gentle caress, a stroke of the unfettered, unperturbed. “I’m a healer.”