Instead of choking, lying, beneath dust, crypts and stone, Imogen and Lena stayed and strayed, immersed in the glowing temple, foraging and forging flower crowns, mossy convictions, sanguine veins of jubilant tunes. When the luminescent strands, the shrouding vines, the quiet, exotic forest gleamed, they radiated back, pulsing beats of pervading songs, lustrous and opulent. Rich, lacquered dreams, particles of star coronets and constellation circlets, writhing and contorting in the throes and throngs of ensnared lures, they stared into the abyss and became enamored with its beams, with its glory, with its triumph. Blooming and blossoming, an underground oasis where pyres and tombs swallowed and gulped, paradise and Elysium sprung from roots and bulbs, strange, foreign, and extravagant. Perhaps it was courageous to rise from the depths and columns of caverns, without sun, without daylight, reaching towards the heavens with no sign, no path, no trail laden for it to crawl upon. Perhaps it was brave and stalwart, driven to no end, to no pursuit, ghostly entrails of a stronger power, divine brushstrokes of the sky painted beneath the layers of earth and stone; rubble fireflies. As Imogen waltzed beneath a massive frond, tugging on it gently, then batting it with a false ferocity, Lena pondered over the other guises of its masquerade, whether there were other uses for these brilliant pieces and fragments of sanctum. Could the particles be harvested, fostered into medicinal purposes, ground into powders, poured, swallowed and burning down gaping mouths to mend, to soothe? Could they be waged into poison, trenchant and mordant, scraping and strangling? Which was which; if she were to pick a hand, a vine, a leaf, would it provide relief and ambivalence, or scorn and danger, foretold by the grandeur of its hue – green for peace, red for spilled ichor? For the briefest of moments, she frowned, examining and investigating, piecing together notions of information bubbling and brewing, consternations and extravagances, if the world always had a mere two choices: life or death.

The ivory kitsune’s sudden chirp, springing and gliding off the haven walls, snared her away from the building study of the plants, the runes, the contorted enigmas, gaze cast into the shadows as Imogen noted another creature roaming into the illuminated corridor. The shape was distinctive, not the radiant, golden phantom Roland, not the painted Glazier Kahlua, but winged. Trepidation floated through her veins for the slightest of seconds before she cast it aside for beneficence, for altruism and generosity, as she advanced, recognition came into play, and the sentiment of a threat was lost altogether. The sylph had no name to place upon the other femme, plumed and anointed with glass hearts, but she’d been amongst their throng, their din, their candor and broken ailments when healers had gathered, attempting to lace wounds and stitch seams of darkness across open chasms. They approached, smooth and fine, slow and deliberate, lithe and limber, beast and maiden, shield and sword, with the refined edge of a smile dipped across the fairy’s features, unwavering and resolute, strength in the gallows and repose in the sepulchers. “I remember you!” Radiant tunes, bells and carols, whistles and carillons, chiming a warm peal over the blossoms; no tocsins, no augurs, no scathing shadows. “But unfortunately, not a name.” She pressed her lips together, honeyed gaze searching and seeking another’s keen kindness, extending her greetings towards the pale vixen at her feet, sniffing the air, wild and free. “This is Imogen.”

@[Alysanne]