A hushed feeling of unease sprinkled and speckled its way through her spine: at first, a slender drop scattered along her bones, nourished perhaps by Imogen’s inward thoughts and the slinking aloofness of the stag, but as more pieces fell and came together, as silence strung through the boughs of fallen carcasses and wayward paths, the coiled fronds of foreboding prickled in her chest, through her veins, out in the curling plumes of her mellifluous breath. She didn’t ask why he skinned the flesh off of the deceased (for armor, for frigid evenings?), how he acquired his wounds (perhaps the same as all of them, brandishing their swords into the fray at a threat to the herd?), or why the nettling notion settled so precariously along her frame – even Imogen found it difficult to explain. But the Mender, the songbird, the sylph, had fostered and nourished apprehension before, dealt with it through the plaguing harpsichords of their livelihoods, and usually conquered it through two avenues: either amidst determination, a scalding precipice flanked by courage and might, or by avoiding it altogether, prospering herself in another time, another place, where the outreaches of villainy, plotting, ruses, and schemes were left to the darker folds and reaches of their potent landscape. Though she wasn’t certain, fluttered with a perceived consternation with no way to conceive why or how, the latter choice became the most beneficial. She wouldn’t intrude, she wouldn’t know, and both could go about their business relatively unscathed, hidden, specious, either never certain about the others’ iron clad secrets. Whether or not he could snatch and snare her sudden trepidation was another matter; her smile remained encompassed in wholesome, candid livelihood, but now didn’t quite reach her eyes. In fact, she nearly turned to leave altogether after the golden one, so unlike, so furtive, than her steadfast Roland, informed her he had no more wounds for her to soothe, had he not mentioned Imogen.

Lena, a purveyor of information and wisdom she happened to grasp along her journeys, always cherished the notion of storytelling, whittling away spells, crafting musings of the details and knowledge she’d acquired throughout her crusades. To leave another who’d inquired, who’d mentioned, who seemed genuinely curious about the world around them left her vexed and disheartened, and even as he conjured a strange, peculiar atmosphere, she dared not tread away from a willing compatriot. Her gaze fluttered down to the mentioned kitsune, and their stares met, the solidified bond between angels and blackguards posturing a difficult query; but both remained so brilliantly stalwart that neither flickered away from Thranduil’s trailing statement. The nymph’s fixation flourished back to the mysterious, enigmatic stallion, inclining her head in her own inquisitive motion, leaving the wily, cunning threads creeping along the back of her mind, spreading, blossoming, in petal soft streaks and strands. “How so?” Maybe he’d never seen a companion up close and drifting beside their chosen; though the sentiment seemed far-fetched and implausible with so many amongst the Basin constituent. The ivory fox, with her unbidden spirit, uttered one vague chirp towards his incantation, perhaps informing him he was of the same curious void.