An overflow of the transcendent; they maneuvered with purpose, with motivation, with goals, with a sight on the horizon and a gift in hand. Lithe, limber magi, careening amidst the widened atmosphere, gave over to the elemental comrades: a grasp of winter, beholden and regal in the palisade of ice, of stone, of caverns, of wonder. Swift and devout, they covered the scenery in a blaze of sienna, shadow, and light, pinnacles of the believers, of the compassionate, of the virtuous and downtrodden. Where another beast would have never warranted the offerings made by the Falls lord, the Songbird offered benevolent decrees and musings of a sagacious splendor, where another creature would scoffed and refused, she listened and proffered the opportunity to deliver a cherished, spellbinding object. Whether or not Mirabella would accept the token of apology, the sacrificial slant of apprehension, misgivings, and misunderstandings, remained an unsure venue. A tip of the scales could venture down either path, and Lena fervently hoped the youth wouldn’t be one more victim of the wrath, the malice, the hate, the abhorrence collected and gathered amongst their world: another cog in the murder machine. Slowing, traipsing lightly through the thickening snow, she and her beloved kitsune searched, nostrils flared and rising towards the air, examining the earth for the pink-hued child, for the little babe whose feelings had been crushed by rampant hypocrisy and petulant ire. They marched like ghosts, airy and elegant, quiet and ardent, fueled by necessity and kindled by kindness, stretching beyond the impasses of boldness and declarations, providing compassion and beneficence where few had ever bestowed the thought. By the light of the auroras, by the sheen of the dawn, they roamed closer and closer towards the hot springs, the delightful, curling bounties of the hot puffs of air, an enchanted garden of heat and geniality, before spreading out a mellifluous calling for the lovely, lively youth. Imogen, guardian and protector of more than just the Time Mender, secured the prize around her neck, settling into the lacquer of snow as a piece of its vestige, and the two awaited the crowning glory of an intrigued youth, the passing of presents, the fostering of forgiveness.

@[Mirabella]