Light, airy steps, hushed fairy queen, emboldened the touch, the ambience, of her daily ritual. Dipping into the Threshold, sweeping and turning over the haunting eaves, the poignant leaves, the brushstrokes of the unfamiliar, the plain, ivory canvases of stories untouched, littered, scarred and scattered. Black clouds wore blemishes upon brighter days, filtering, flickering, running over the remnants of petalsoft embellishments, sculpted and molded sectors of myths, legends, stanzas and lyrics of the unknown, somber, whimsical, weary and listless. She followed the trace, the sketch, the outlines of all these sagas and fables, contemplated the archaic blend of their truths, of their ambitions and aspirations, bending and wavering over the lines they painted and composed. Even when the rain joined the dots and patterns, the portraits and pieces, the nymph calculated their essence, their efforts, their raw elegance and effervescence, smiled as each bead collided and cascaded in ambient rivulets. Another stream guided her towards the waiting opulence of another traveler, and as she unfolded into the depths of brooks, suddenly awakened by the joy, the reverie, the rapture of the sky releasing its brethren, she noted the appearance of the stranger. Horned, a sword in arms and curled, like rams of old, battling and embarking down clifftops, mountainsides and peaks (wouldn’t that be a perfect accompaniment to the layers of their icicle valleys, intricate pathways of rock, rubble and stone?), dyed two different strands – and then one more, spotted in the midst of groves and copses. She didn’t recognize the winged beast, but he appeared to have traversed these same lands many a time; perhaps he enjoyed the art of recruiting as well, meeting new faces, developing bonds and friendships while establishing the strength, diligence and valor of one’s herd. She extended a smile to both, warm, bright candor in the hazy, misty contortions of the day, addressing in a blessed, honeyed tone, mellifluous, melodic, harmony in the illustrious webs of uncertainty. “Welcome to Helovia. I’m Lena of the Aurora Basin.” Queries pressed against her mind, blossoming, blooming interest that flowed and curved over the ambience and embrace of her curious cranium, developing and enveloping into the flow of her beatific vocals. “Who are you, and what do you seek here?” Shelter? Sanctuary? Sanctum? A world beyond former terrain? Or something else, dipping and twirling into the mysterious, enigmatic requiems of the runed palisades and palaces before her?