His deep vocals echoed back from the icy fissure, an answer, a reply, and her heart was stitched back into regularity, gaze softening to explore further into the Weaver’s retreat, peering into the embankment of cotton and textiles, a world she didn’t quite understand, but was eternally grateful for. She wondered over all the things he could make, the canvases woven, threaded, banners waving, fabrics twisted, knotted, hemmed, sewn, seams and calculations amongst midnight oils and rising suns. The dulcet warmth of her stare pinpointed over the darkened figure and his effervescent markings, the cool reverberations reminding her of lightning, of sieges and exploits, of crusades embarked by storms and stones, and she briefly worried she’d somehow interrupted him. Was he working on another task, and her appearance had disturbed him? Was she distracting him from some important, monumental mission? Surely there were greater, grander things to do for an entire herd, employing him for hours at end? The apprehension, the tribulations, the soft crater of anxiety creeping, crawling, slinking along her bones, were extinguished and absolved almost immediately thereafter, as Farenjer’s sword neatly, friendly, bumped into her own horn. They were welcome guests, invited into his workshop and threshold, partaking in all of the delicacies and tapestries. She returned the gesture with a firm, jovial bump, and Imogen twirled with flax still embedded in her jaws, remembering him from times and seasons past. The regal sylph, with all of her angelic qualities, concocted a dazzling smile, a winsome haze, procuring more hope from the shield of her heart. Spirited, enlightened, sanguine and expectant, her melodic embrace brimmed and unfolded throughout the cavern, airy and divine. “I have a request, if you’re not occupied.” Her eyes dropped to linger upon the ivory kitsune, and the vixen stepped forward, dropping her bundle at the Weaver’s feet, giving forth a few dancing steps before prancing back to her prior position. The Mender bestowed more of her radiance into a gallant explanation, the reasons for their indulgent interlude. “I was hoping with this flax, that you would be able to craft a bag for me?” She paused, breathed in the summer air, and forgot prior misgivings. “I’d like to use one to gather herbs.” Then her gaze pinpointed back to his icy stare, and strength segmented back into resolution, stalwart, intrepid, and steadfast, jubilant grin back in glowing fixtures and features. “And to know your price, of course.”