The Mender sculpted and morphed her way through her own silence, content to watch the others perform, sparked and invigorated by the timeless pieces they carved and scorched into the earth. Illynx, with her passionate display and ritual synchronicity, conforming and enacting the whimsical arts she’d so handily mastered with her son weeks before, the pale, rosy femme matching her skill for skill with her own child, waltzing with blades and swords, Artemis and connivers. Even the brindled femme, seemingly bursting with some unknown tirade, plaited together a masterful display, told and invoked her own story (she should be dotted and hued with green, envious streaks instead of ivory?). Even foals, tender younglings (one Jorogumo – an unforgettable, eerie child) were consumed by the songs, by the ceremonies, by the bewitching, heavenly air, and paired off to display their own semblances of harmony and balance. So distracted, so immersed, in the exuberance, in the ebullience, in the bliss and repose, even matching crescendos to her own croons, she hadn’t noted the Thief’s presence until he was at her side, a charming tiding thrumming along her ears. A blush, wild and scintillated, hastened at his sudden compliment, at the crafty grin centered along his lips. Without a means to fight off the flush, she ignited her lively, animated smile, centered her wholesome, honeysuckle gaze along the horizon, then swept it towards the golden sector of his brigand features, riveted, fixated, fascinated all over again. Familiar, but still bashful, her rhapsody tended to the appreciation, bending amongst the humility homespun in her heart. “Thank you.” She nearly asked him if he had any yearnings to entreat the Time God and his unearthly legacies into the mix and mold, curious and intrigued by his arrival, but his following words left her momentarily speechless.

Truthfully, she’d never been coaxed, instructed, or deigned towards minstrels of the arts either – the leaves, the grains, the boughs, and the wind had tended to her movements, to her motions, so as she twirled she mixed amongst their sector, so as she swirled, she was one of their bright, endeavoring flock. Perhaps the thorns had taught her how to straighten, how to reel, how to chase, and the deep nettles had ensured she mastered a charming, finessed pirouette, but for a few tender moments she felt it almost odd that worldly Roland, with his crafty gaze, with his unsung secrets, had somehow missed the opportunities. She was even more shocked he’d let her in on a confidential, private nuance, and the little sylph kept it tightly tucked against her heart, offering it fluttering guidance. But, as an intricate, wise, and musing pixie, she allotted him none of these things: only the widening of her grin, the ambling of her pride, and the amusement of her fairy, fey interludes. A brief aria, bright candor, honeyed, sugared sentiments, curled from her mouth with the daintiest of whispers, floating against the billowing air, assuring him his concealments were hidden in her rapture. “Of course! I’d be happy to!” For a few scarce seconds, she pondered over how to provide him with such a wide array and variety of techniques, sienna gaze scouring over the dancers as they maneuvered and bent with the wind, with the breeze, with the pulse, meter, and measure. Illynx’s recital, while strong, fluid, and dominating, would be too difficult for one who’d never partaken in the quick steps or the demonstrative march.

The slender, lithe fae, with her whimsical, flowery crown, instead, held her instruction towards the beat. She listened over and over again to the rhythm set by Kyst, thrummed, murmured, and soothingly absconded it for herself, drawing and sketching a vibrant hum in the back of her throat, composed it into a steady rapture, a devout, reverential reverie. Her body assumed a gentle, lulling swing, from one foot to the next, front to back, side to side, in time with the music surrounding, enfolding, encompassing them. Gently, she coaxed the same motions towards Roland, stepping closer, breaths mingling, blossoms and blooms tucked beneath his cranium, and soft maw tapping his shoulder to the melody. Dainty edges, soft, dulcet arias, wiled away the stream of song, bird carols and swallow tails. “Dancing is merely moving to the beat – if you find a cadence, sway to it!” Each time she maneuvered her lips towards his frame, touching, gracing, with light, minuet fronds, she raised the same leg, positioned it so he could mimic the motions. She repeated the tune, the strain, amidst the intimate partnering, brushing with fond deliverance, with gallant, valorous elegance, so their delicate refrain became a constant theme, an anchored strain, pulsating to the vibrant harmony of their bound stature. So focused and riveted on her task, so familiar again the affinity, amity, and affection between fay and swindler, she failed to turn into another roseate hue.

@[Roland]