L E N A
reaching as I sink down into light

The journey from the Threshold was unlike so many other odysseys; slow, laborious and arduous. Lena didn’t convey her youthful whimsy, her brush against ambrosial roses, or her dancing in the fickle beams of light. This earnest, resolute traversing did not harken the fanciful, fey sentiments of her otherworldly vagueness, the dreamy, mystic chords of enigmatic mastery. Instead, she heralded the other attributes of her tenacious, spirited mind, proffering her shoulder to creatures that needed, required, her formidable prowess. They drifted as one segment, naught of ethereal canticles and elegant artists, but as a damaged union, the impaired and injured. She led them over mangled roots and torn shrubs, through ashen graveyards reburied by falling leaves, amongst curling fronds that crinkled in the dew and scattered in the wind, soft and silken in the gossamer tendrils of a blessed sanctuary. She crossed silent valleys and ruffian clifftops, the breaking waves crashing against sullen rock and rubble, and hummed a dulcet tune between her lips, a soothing aria that dove over boughs and around ferns. She didn’t know their names, only their necessity for survival; the wrenching torrents of pain shambled and reassembled over each sinuous step, each short stride, and each gallant motion.

When they arrived in a particular glade, she ceased movement. Regal cranium twisted in different directions, velvetine maw lifted to the arching winds and the covenant breeze, distinct in the rhapsody of so many individuals. She didn’t know his name either, this providential healer of the Edge, and could only rue the unfamiliarity, how foolish and clumsy it was to remain ignorant of so many herd members. Yet, she beckoned that adamant heart to regain its fortitude, postured her mouth to call for this infamous doctor. It was a hastened cry, the slipping, coaxing call of distress, not for her benefit, but for others, these poor, suffering strangers. A kind eye nestled to the tired, wavering creatures she’d brought from the dark trappings of shadowed corridors, reassuring and comforting. ”He’ll be here soon.” And after that, after their healing, would they stay? Would they strive to be included in the Edge, with their fellow horned brethren? Or would they continue on in their journeys, finding elsewhere, another land, to grow and prosper? These curious endeavors struck her mind, but she didn’t voice them – they were other matters entirely. Wounds should be closed first before others opened.

[First Irene/Chastity, then perhaps D’art would like to make an appearance and heal? ;D Then whomever else would be welcome!]