The signature of peril reared its head for another trial, whispering in the summer vestiges, simmering on the borders, scathing and sinuous, howling for annihilation, panting for massacre, begging, clawing, pleading with the yearning whines and pelted furs. A sinking sensation drove her through the valley, stalking the rims and fringes of entropy, preparing for the sweeping bellows, for the swift rush, for the trenchant ease of violence as she slipped from rampant birdsong into enigmatic hellion, a part of the cold rock, a portion of the chilling peaks, a piece of the whirlwind tapestries of defense and resistance. She tried not to recall the hours spent in the same caustic purgatory, drenched and lathered in the striking chords of iniquity, dancing through the seasons and sages as another marauder, seeking absolution through ferocity and savagery, but they turned and twisted over her hide as beast and fairy calculated and measured the distance of canines to their expanse, wicked, persistent, fixated on the perceived targets. Sometimes an enchantress, tumbling amongst the foils of reeds and blossoms, and other moments, the smoldering sinner, retracing the steps of hungry, avaricious plumes; monsters be damned. While Imogen careened, glorified by the chance of destruction, memories flooded Mender dreams and fay whims churned to ash and dust, muscles undulating and recalling the fibers of invasions, the reasons for their existence, the puncturing, the lancing, the lacquer of protection they all provided to each other. The foals required protection, zealous, fervent preservation and savage security, and like so many other times before, she’d adhere to the laws of the land, the call, the urging, the beaconing, the siren song of vigilance and immorality, dipping amongst the scars for another moment of heresy. Clarity and ruffian regards awakened, a chiseled brow, a fiendish glow, a barbaric radiance, they swindled and swarmed into the onslaught, gaze fastened and fixated upon the Reaper, swiveling away from his death throes, and the other stag, hoping to stop and blemish the cretins attempting to peel away from demise and eradication. Amidst the boughs of desecration, caught in the throng of licentiousness, of decadence, she felt no remorse, no regrets, no rue for the canines bound to be maimed, and quietly, drenched in their silent connection, sent Imogen towards the left, looping around the outer flank of the pack. With no apprehension, with no hesitation, the ivory kitsune cloaked their void in a circlet of fire and embers, a brilliant conflagration, longing to soak and corrode, aiming to burn, to decimate, to brew brutality in a constant, igneous deluge. Lena coasted towards the center, hoping to push those running away from the flames, or from the rampant stoking of death, back into the inferno they’d made for themselves, forgoing her regal tiara, her flower crown, for a rapier’s stroke, driving her horn towards their greedy hides.

[Imogen and Lena go towards the left. Imogen attempts to set them all on fire, Lena goes towards the center to drive some near Deimos and Kreiger, or into Imogen’s flames.]