They ran, songbird and beast across meadows, plains, glaciers and faults, cascading ripples of illuminated, bright, brilliant clarity through the shadowy whims, the fallen, capricious grounds, the veiled, shady, furtive terrain. Each stride was a push towards safety, sanctuary, whispering through the nocturnal plumes and the daunting threads, the drifting, cumbersome, molten, scathing tides, vestiges of sanctum pushing and pressing against her cranium. She’d bestowed hums, hymns, through the clutching, scraping darkness, healed and soothed, assuaged and mended, watched the derisive, irreverent blush seep away from a beloved friend, and wondered if she trilled, crooned, caroled herself hoarse, if she breathed and sang and bled for this land – if all could be saved. If she stretched out her alms, her strains, her ditties, to each listening ear, to each cordial being, to each unholy, caustic vehemence, would the wanton eaves ebb, recede, hide, chased into the reaches, arms of virtue? Her wandering, her wavering, her wayfaring journey held purpose, decibels of the divine, searching, aiding, providing the same benedictions she’d proffered towards Kahlua, towards her brethren, the earth, the world, the kingdoms pieced together by derisive strands, hoping to procure newcomers, salvage their ignorance, set deliverance before an eldritch rhythm sank into their heart. Meticulous examinations, curious calculations, the endless scope of a pale, stark regime, scraping across the rime and juncture of autumn’s finale; the press, the veneer, the shifting shapes of fallen leaves and crushed aspirations. The honeyed set of her gaze finally pinpointed figures blooming in the heart of the gateway, unknown, unfamiliar, without aid, alliance or information. If left to their own devices, this dark, sworded femme and her equine companion, what would become of them (ruin, abomination, infestation in the radioactive pestilence, until pieces of their flesh and soul fell to the sand, gritty and petulant, toxic and fiendish)? Imogen chirped their welcome, a zealous, fervent invitation to follow, because she’d seen, she’d protected, she’d safeguarded the sienna nurse following suit, wishing, yearning, longing for opportunities to salvage incomprehension. A warm melody coasted through her voice, a beckoning, a warning, a foreshadowing of the lack of seraphs, the long-lost angels crashed into wreckage along their coasts, fields and summits. “Welcome to Helovia. I am Lena, of the Aurora Basin.” She paused, nodded her head, allowed Imogen to dance in her frenetic twirls and whirls. “Unfortunately, you have arrived at an inopportune time. Helovia faces a threat amongst the shadows and the darkness. You are not safe here.” Her stare, fixated upon the remnants of these individuals, upon their curious ends and ponderings. “I can lead you to refuge, if you wish.”