The genial warmth conjured and congealed against the Steppe’s merciless recoil was a breath of fresh air, and she pondered over the many things she should be grateful for, instead of the murky doldrums haunting prior exploits. The ghostly trappings, the phantom noose, the unwinding fingers drumming against her soul; unsung, unholy munitions, failed to rankle and ignite as she passed the time away, soaked in the ardor, the tenderness, the kindred spirits rising into the chilling arena. Faelene, smiling, returned, brought back from sands and slaughter into their perilous void, Kahlua, a newfound companion, christened, painted Glazier, talented and motivated to bring forth gifts (her eyes would have to catch the glassy conjectures and sculpture upon her return – she wondered what the bestowal had been, shrouded and nestled in beauty) despite past, trenchant actions. How had she come to be so lucky, to be proffered repose from the slinking, crawling, mordant exploits of yesteryear? To be permitted relaxation, tranquility, strangers becoming friends instead of snarling opponents and unabashed enemies? She returned their graces with the whimsical air of her softened grins and sanguine smiles, dulcet and wondrous, opulent and radiant, just as the way their earth should have been, resolute and adamant.

Her fortune seemed to trickle away, however, moments after. Serenity drained away from the surface, scattered across rocks, glaciers, stones, rampant and wild, touching, scarring, mutilating the incandescent traces flickering there moments before; heated, bated breath curled along the fringes of her hair, the ferocious, zealous decibels clinging in carnivore abandon. A portion of her yearned to fight the delusion, the hallucination, the chimera sprung between flights of fancy, of giggles, delights and laughter, spurn and invoke some unwelcome, frigid gaze, or stand against the meticulous machinations of sedition, revolution, stalwart, steadfast, the valorous petals strung with blooming armor. But it, this unknown force of calamity and abhorrence, chained remnants of bravery to her chest, and she could barely turn her cranium to catch the springing snow, once bright, beautiful, wonderful powder, clear beneath the moon’s rays or dazzling in the splendor of its infinite kin, flung at their small group, snarling, clicking its teeth, pursuing, hunting, gathering ichor for its swallowing, all-consuming feast of toxic indulgence. She barely heard Kahlua’s warning, couldn’t wrap her heart around Imogen’s constant snarling and ominous cries (leave, we must leave), exposed to the venomous exploits, the voracious desires of the evil slithering, piece by piece, shard by shard, threatening, portended, augured. Only when the slivers of fear sparked against her spine, true, unbidden horror and terror (so much more than what the shadows invoked, than the revelry of war bid or the burdensome images of her past composed), leapt into her throat and along the beat of her heart, did she manage to move. The glass molder had already left, blending into the earth after her screech, and Lena couldn’t allow herself to be silent, threading one desperate song into the wind, hastening Faelene to follow. “To the Basin – we must warn the others!” An abrupt swing, her movements became an uncollected regime of swift intricacies, lacking finesse, elegance and refinement in the frightening hues blinding them from sanctuary, from Elysium, quick, powerful emblems of haste, of wilderness, of blending fury and panic into a righteous determination – for if she were to be chased away from repose, from reverie, from rapture, there would be repercussions to the foils of insurrection. She refused to have her sovereign, so nearby, so close, sunken and devoured by the covetous light, by the unashamed rancor, by the callous disregard of a creeping, fortuitous menace. The nymph paused only briefly, to ensure the Thief followed, before fey and kitsune became part of the enveloping shadows, to the confines of their icy threshold and kingdom.