The splendid air, the spiraling chill, of Orangemoon’s quiet, coaxing vestiges glorified her beatific steps, and she moved in time with Farenjer’s request, casting an effervescent hint, a magnificent glow, amidst the rambling lands of the Thistle Meadow. For a few, quiet moments, she remembered all the glimmering elements the land had to offer, tender ruminations with Roland, flickering gems of play and even the merest, idlest fashion of contentment, standing in the nourishing sun, polishing the cobwebs of the mind. Given the opportunity, she would have stranded her thoughts to be consumed with the wind, floating bulbs of blossoms and howling, saintly generosities; but the hours close at hand bade them into the reckoning of the impending festivities, and she wouldn’t have ignored the chimes of promised dancing, of wondrous jubilation, of incoming songs and whittled crafts for anything. The Mender and her beloved vixen set out to work after their moments in the rapturous reverie, bending close to the tall blades and picking out the ivory balls of cotton, picturing them as woven banners or fleeting, waving flags, measures and tokens of pride, of power, of dominion amongst the portals of ice. Imogen scrambled amongst the brambles, taking a few in her mouth or batting them with relish, watching as they glided towards Lena along the cold breeze, hiding a chuckle or two as little Rikyn approached. Illynx’s son held all the nuances and prowess of foretold promises, and the gentle songbird coaxed a wondrous smile for the child and his bursting curiosities, his lavish offerings. Lowering her cranium once more, and giving the kitsune the last bits of her cotton to collect and meld together, she dabbled in light, harmonic arias, extending her appreciation for the colt’s munificence. “Thank you, Rikyn.” She dropped her voice to a zealous whisper, as if conspiring with a friend over mischievous, impish whims, delicately courting the wiles of a curious lad, winking amongst their fragile exchange. “As a matter of fact, I could use your help in acquiring an herb.” She curled her lips together, mulling over the difficulty of finding such a plant, and proceeding to alter the hunt into an adventurous game, hoping he’d be allured and enticed into the exploration, not bored or brought into droll nature by the thought of flora and fauna; after all, everything around them held some ability to cast a healing shade or a darkened cloud – it merely mattered how hard one looked. “Incidentally, it’s a plant called Meadowsweet. I was hoping we could use it for anyone with an ill stomach or headaches.” She paused, then roamed into its lifelike description. “It has creamy white petals, clustered close together, and long stems. It also has a delightful smell – almost sugary. Do you think you could find it?”