Whirlwind, singsong choreography, dancers on chilling winds and vestiges of spring, sprig plumes, buds and blossoms trumpeting to the beat of a frost-laden garden, they streaked along the plains, nymphs of the empyrean mountains and valleys. Refreshed and invigorated by the cycles of seasons, drawn into the wake of finches, sparrows, and cardinals, sketched by jay feathers and dewy petals, cast into repose and reverie for instances, for snippets, for moments at a time; enamored in bliss for the short hours they could entangle its mirth, its bounty, its whimsy. Were she more pious perhaps she would have drank ambrosia and polished gilded enchantments, wove tapestries and canvases telling fantastical stories, but instead, she granted the gift of her own allure, invoking satin song through the layers and corridors of Basin pleasantries. She watched the flowers awaken, she witnessed the laurels of their perseverance flourish, and she paid respect to the summits and lieges, bowing to their might and spinning in their wake. Only when they’d both heard a familiar voice (Imogen snapped her ears upright, ceased hopping amongst the tall grass), did they abandon all movement, pondering over the wonder, the distinction, of such a visit. Was it Alysanne, the gentle-hearted lamb from the vines, the caverns, the glowing dungeon and haven? A deep breath, an invoking of scent, a token flap of wings, was all the sylph and kitsune needed to capture the nature of their intention – steps gave chase, wild, untamed beasts in the blush of their valley, in the lacquer of their glaciers and potency, laughing, giggling, coiling the fanciful art of their generous symphony once more. Whatever they’d done to earn the social hour, they cherished it with a momentous burst of rhapsody, entangled into the midst of sentinels and borders, chiming, chirping, echoing the peaceful decibels across the void, watching as the machine heeded the ardent, fervent strains and arias. “Alysanne!” Painted and regal, friendly and outgoing, appearing in the passage as though she’d never changed, and the two responded in kind – longing to seem unaltered from the destruction, from the chaos, ravaging the outside realms and kingdoms, the open lands seeking, absconding commotion. “Welcome to the Basin!” A smile, a grin, an extension of her soft maw upon the femme’s shoulder, and she continued as Imogen bounced between her legs, lithe and swift, an ivory flame in the tendrils of green. “How are you?”