Elegance and eloquence, prevailing and pervading, lilies and allure, persimmons and snares, wrapped around the woven conjectures of her corporeal form, studied the quiet solidarity of the crafter. He appeared all at once startled, then composed, unsure, then collected, ruffled, then unperturbed. Maybe the throngs of her ebullience had scattered away his confidence, and subsequently reshaped it back into its casual, aloof stance, as if the unfamiliarity of company, exposure to the world, to heartstrings and arias, had swindled him for a moment. Was he a creature of loneliness, forlorn and despondent, shirking grandeur and stature of others for the silken webs of silence and moroseness? Was their icy world, their strong, glacial walls suited for these characters, drifting amongst the moonlight and chilling, Siberian wake, content to pass over runes and majesty for ample thralls of peace, of seclusion and isolation, barren to the existence of another? Had she offended him, leaping and cajoling, shouting and grinning, simmering in the bounty of her joviality? The femme drew to a more reposed grandeur, tilted her cranium back and forth, gazing upon his markings as she pondered over the length of her upheaval. Too many times she’d managed to scar and muster what could have been delightful aspects and pleasant evenings, gentle mornings and easygoing dawns, with the might, the power, the prowess of her buoyancy and delight. Had she erred here too, left another beast and brethren bothered, dampened, soused and uncomfortable, rejoicing only when her radiant form flickered away into the dusk? A sigh almost left her figure, because she was tired of heaving dilemmas upon kin instead of celebrating triumphs or solving problems, but she rendered, molded, and sculpted the resolute sketch of her ambrosial outline; all fancy and whims, music and nature, listening to the trials and liberation of his own voice. It’s Farenjer. She longed to practice it across her mouth, dive into the different syllables and conjectures, derive finesse and grace from the foundation of its weight, but captured the thin determination of his vocals instead as he gestured towards Imogen.

The kitsune, for her part and consideration, strived to reach the apprentice’s hooves, peeking at the glorious, rooted markings, twirling and pirouetting, tails bounding in swaying reverence. Lena nearly laughed at the antics, often giddy, merry, delighted by the sights, the sounds, simplicity delving far deeper than the corridors of beauty and wonder; Imogen was forever a chiseled place in her heart, and she was eternally eager and willing to share her presence with others. “This is Imogen.” At the mention of her name, the vixen sprung into action, powered a mighty bounce from the snow and back into vibrant, fine powder, chirping and cajoling the beasts gathered within. Attention sought and struck, the sylph fixated her attentions back upon Farenjer, curiosity drawing quick strokes of intrigue, splashes of the unknown, dots of the unfamiliar. Gentle, prying queries, naught that would simmer down within his bones, past, become mired in secretive, furtive history that only the most clandestine of whims could intrude upon, postured their works along her mind, and she fed them with dainty arias and beatific ease. “What do you do for the Basin, Farenjer?”