She drifted through the pathways and peaks, dipped and twirled amongst the outcrops and primrose trails, a fairy light in the pinnacle of the midday’s sun. Bright and enchanted with purpose, with direction, she didn’t take time to stare upon the icicles trickling from open caverns or pay homage to the dancing, shimmering beams of the sun against the melting ice, building a crescendo of feathery steps, gliding along the rime and ice as if sculpted from its more radiant ramparts. Behind her, following like an ivory shadow, wove Imogen, carrying a bundle of flax in her mouth, quietly humming beneath the layers of plant life, proud to be burdened with this great task. Any other moments would be split into ebullience and jovial pursuits, a dance upon the hills, overlooking the sovereign valley, the great rush of snow and tundra, whistling against the fir and pine, searching for newcomers or cajoling fellow patriots – but Lena’s mind, a constant swirl of resolution, determination, and hope, had brought her into the twisted conviction of herbs, gathered little barbs, thorns, blooms, and blossoms, meant to soothe, meant to mend, meant to aid; palms and alms of the woods. While she took her responsibility as one of the Time Menders seriously, nestling the brambles and brush together, minding the whims, the toxins, she had no true means of carrying them to her brethren besides Imogen’s dainty mouth or her own. How naïve and foolish to dream that she could save the world with the tiny bits of flora, rushing back and forth without a system or item to warrant the grand measures of liberation, deliverance, and salvation! The idea had sparked from there, an incitement of cunning and wily demonstrations she wielded from time to time, of snaking materials and perhaps, should a Weaver be willing, to thread together a bag. The nymph wouldn’t be burdened with the notion of leaving her precious items behind, attempting to remember their place for another day when she could snag them, and if anyone would require immediate aid, she’d have the elements and ingredients ready. Alysanne’s visit had sealed the deal; together, they’d procured the necessary components, and she, like an eager fay, combed through the clouds to solidify her wishes and aspirations.

So, as they wound their way around the Basin’s plumes, the lithe sylph peeked and poked her head into various caves, hoping to draw out the one soul she was looking for. Several times she’d been amiss, incapable of finding the necessary, noble beast, narrowing her eyes into darkness to find the grotto stacked with cotton or another delightful specimen used for their craft, but they continued in their pursuits, unyielding, resolute, relentless in their search. Towards one of the last caverns, she drew forth a brilliant whisper, bestowed and permitted it to float through the airy, crisp summer wind, billowing in its vivid allure towards the aperture. “Farenjer?”

@[Farenjer]