An impasse, a puncturing examination: they were not spiraling, magnificent revelations – Lena could have surmised by the sway of his brow, the hint of his swagger, the domineering plight of catastrophe drenched from the edges of his smile, his occupation bent towards sleuths and phantoms, wraiths and shadows, secrets and clandestine affairs. In the confession, she heightened her guard precipitously; wove keen walls and mounting peaks, locked away in the inner sanctum of her shield and galvanized the warm entity of her grin. She only wholly trusted one Thief, and even if they were both gilded and serene, only this one set her teeth on edge and her spine rankling in apprehension. The nymph, instead of regaling the golden brigand further into her serene display of knowledge upon her companion, drew back into silence, into the burrowing atmosphere she’d employed and developed as a child, a molded construct, a defensive maneuver, to ensure naught was revealed, everything kept at bay. Her sienna armor fastened securely along her cranium, amongst the warrens and mazes, the mythos and tales, never completely expressed through the tenderness of her gaze or the weary juncture of her quieted jaw. If the sylph was intended to tangle with a serpent, she’d give him no edge, no leeway, no summit to throw her over. She became an observer, a witness, to the washing of pelts and the steady stream of red running through the lake, a dance of ichor, a rivulet of ruin. Some amount of the Mender’s sentiments wished she’d simply fled, hurried and tarried off into the wilderness once she’d healed the barbed, open lacerations, and another portion of her felt she grew stronger by the strangers she’d faced, that she’d battled amongst the mind and spirit. The latter won out of further curiosity and cordiality; she wouldn’t rudely disembark without good reason (despite every sense begging for her to leave, and every foolhardy, valorous nuance courting, spellbinding, her to stay and confront). Her masque carefully refined, intricately poised, carefully manipulated, bound into the curled brim of her lips, a fond smile, a generous tone, an affable, effervescent bliss never quite reaching her stare, prospered across the horizon, dewy and dulcet. “Duplicity is one way to make a living.” She paused, stared across the ruffian expanse, with its mighty wings and gallant glaciers, wondering how intense her purpose, her motives, her inclinations ran through the halls of their icy threshold, or if she pressed on too many all at once (sometimes a generous babe pressing sacrificial alms against the gall, sometimes a flailing mutineer, and other times dragging her heart through the muck and the mire). Her gaze fluttered back to him, delicate, taffeta strings dipped in honeysuckle pretense, a whimsical edge taut over the mellifluous strands. “Do you enjoy your profession?”