Each Threshold venture was a new escapade and uncertainty, from daunting, terrible intrigues, to the unfurling, unwinding, uncurling venues and veils of mysteries, enigmas, madness and concern, twisting and coiling, convoluting, into principles, niceties. Brewing within these depths was another primrose path altogether, brandished in scorn, in derision, in cruel, callous armaments that neither, from what the nymph had seen, unleashed upon the newcomer. Particles and remnants of history collided with the present, clashed, burned and smoldered, and the sylph was suddenly witness to anomalies and oddities, eyes widened to capture, to ensnare the feverish turn and toil of ancient turbulence billowing, flowing in a zealous, curt edge. Had they done something to anger the mare? To bristle and deceive? Had her memories prevailed, and couldn’t be rendered anew in the daunting precipice of this land before her? Did she presume them beasts, vermin, monsters from the dark alleys, from the shadowy, nocturne shades, from the pressing, Stygian gullies? For a few moments, the songbird said nothing, remained motionless and fixated, composed and calm, attempting to piece together the situation into a formidable stance, into staunch, valorous, honorable intentions. Instead of molding an invitation, for it seemed more pressing matters haunted the terse vixen, Lena, dulcet, beatific and melodic, drummed a harmony, deep in the soothing raptures of her throat, into the ducts and webs of her silken tones, until they vibrated and cast a peaceful, poet laureate stanza, satin and smooth, existing, drifting, in the essence and elegance of repose. Perhaps through enchantments, through invocations, through grace and radiance, safety and sanctum, this Acantha of the Saxony Mountains, could be appeased, be assuaged, relaxed and tranquil.

Only after the song sprung from her lips, hummed and vibrated, danced and waltzed, did she trace a smile back along her mouth, curved a gentle, winsome grin. “You will find no danger from us, Acantha.” The Pegasus, from the sandy dunes, from a world they’d pressed upon and failed to consume, seemed considerate, compassionate, and so she obliged the notion with words – actions were eloquence, and she hadn’t seen any proof of any assumed violence. She inclined her cranium back towards the belle, tilting, curious, inquisitive again. What did this soul want from the world? What spurned her forward? What drove her onward, from the depths of desecration, from the mauling, toiling turbulence of her former life, from the blunt edge of her words to the chaotic raptures of Helovia? Would the land of Auroras, should she want, crave, yearn for sanctuary, be the right place for her? “If you desire a home, I can offer you the Aurora Basin. We contain wondrous peaks and valleys, a network of caverns, hot springs, and the brilliance of a never-freezing lake.” Honeyed, sweet, tender and welcoming, her heart swelled for the notion of taking Acantha from the war-torn scars, the labyrinths of bedlam yesteryears, and applying resilience, morality, soothing the serrated edges.