A simple camaraderie fell over the air, lithe, limber conjectures of friendship and easygoing parallels, and all the rigid contortions, all the stiff distortions fueled and pummeled into her soul relaxed, unwound. A soothing breath eased from her lungs, billowing back into the frigid ether, heartlines and disillusion forgotten in the curls of smiles, grins and promises of eager benediction – for so long she’d yearned for the return of generosity, for the cool veneer, for the numbing artifice, to crumble away from her sinful sculpture. Bells and carols, warbles and whistles, trills and chirps had been sought instead of war songs and battle cries, symphonies of indignation and hostility, and the gentle sigh coaxed from her honeyed convictions are a welcome pulse from a once cracked soul. In the midst of Kahlua, there was no fear, no violence, no heresy or immorality festering, withering, decaying; like a sense of freedom washing over free-flowing tides and rivulets, cascading down in chilling sonnets, because she didn’t need to guard, reflect or pacify the rancor, the regrets, the calamity of all their fraught pieces, had no reason to be the nurse, the healer, the mender or the unfit warrior. Only Lena, sylph and nymph, fey and fairy, pixie and sprite, flower and blossom, butterfly and swan, dipped in ambrosia, finessed in coquette strings and minuet ballads. Refinement reshaped and molded, elegance, grace, finesse polished and lacquered to forget, to bestow, to offer and proffer the better alms of her convictions and generosity, smoothly conveyed in the balance of her laughter or the tenderness of her grin. Even when Kahlua mentioned the delivery of a statue to the Basin (to a world the painted one should have despised, neglected or avoided), Lena simply arched a brow, driven to curiosity over the reasoning, over the abilities of the femme before her, but never acrimony, villainy or animosity. Had the Basin entered into some kind of treaty? What had the gift been, formed into? Did this painted figure, this dancer, this willow and oak of copses, glades and walls, possess some talent for concocting, where Lena held the art for composing? Only one managed to form across her lips, inquisitive, but not daring to pry too far and lose the arches and lilts, the arias and ditties, of a newfound friend. “How kind of you! Do you possess the ability to mold such finery?”

She became momentarily distracted by a chirp, a kindled resonance of the kitsune, rendered into her mind, poised and twinkling, like stars in the midnight sky, clear, precise, excited. Found your Thief! And in no time at all, the notion sparked some lost momentous ruin of all her nefarious sensations, leaving them in a deep, long-lost memory, shards and portals forgotten until some other slip. Faelene, come home from the shackles of another world, another place? Kahlua must have sensed the appearance, the presence, of her too, for mere seconds later she gestured another vivacious welcome, and Lena strived to match her ebullience. Imogen sauntered ahead, blue tipped tails swinging and gliding in the wintry wind, the familiar crimson mane and ebony, inky form following close behind. The femme left Kahlua for a few moments, incapable of containing her delight, her thrill, her relish and adoration for an old friend returning from sieges and despair. Her motions, traces of joviality, of harmony, of rhapsody, followed after her voice, an outcry of happiness and enchantment derived from the deepest runes of her affections. “Faelene!” Determined not to slide across the ramparts of ice and stone, she reached the endless void of companions and extended her maw to the Thief, along her shoulder, tangling her vocals into the whirlwind of reunions and fondness. “I’m so glad to see you’re back!” There were many other things to add, to ask, to query and inquire – her steady eyes focused upon the new skin, if there were any other songs she’d have to utter and coax from her mouth to heal and mend the shattered remnants of her companion, features solidifying into a gilded form of steadfast valor. A brilliant hum bubbled along the back of her throat, an ease to the tension rendered in her blood, in the pervading truth of Faelene’s old wounds, riddled and marked with former clarity, to assuage and appease, intent upon leading her back towards the painted dame, towards safety, recollection, repose.