Her concern unfolded in soft, dulcet waves, worried and troubled that she perhaps had pressed too far into Resplendence’s comfort, became too bold, too enamored with friendship, with amiable spirits, that she’d forgotten what it was like to be shy, to be tucked too far into one’s self. The Songbird had once drifted beneath canopies and boughs, shunned and disregarded, forsaken and isolated, and never wished those circumstances upon another being. She yearned to pull, to tug, to weave the other femme out of the miseries, out of the melancholies, of her own flesh and mind, but had no ability or right to do so. It had to be Resplendence who wanted to alter, who wanted to change, who wanted to morph from caterpillar and cocoon to beautiful, gracious butterfly, and despite the anxious exterior, despite the pricking of uncomfortable granules, the nightingale still remained, a glowing beacon of serenity and beneficence. Gently, quietly, she extended her nuptials and grandeur into the enchantment of the thicket and cliffsides, murmuring a melodious, mellifluous croon down into the floor, where it peeked and tumbled in golden, gilded ferns and rapacious, hungry violets, beautiful and exuberant. Meant to soothe, meant to radiate peace, happiness, calm compositions and florid, heartfelt wishes, it danced and twirled, delighted and amused, diverted and conjured tranquility; the swallow grinned and winked towards Alysanne as she offered feathers and wings in hand, in comfort, and the Mender drummed reassurance down into the interludes of fronds and friends. Then Resplendence offered what she’d hoped to hear all along, an invitation, a summoning, to the beloved garden, to a grove of herbs and wildlife, to serenity and versatility, and the maiden of the Basin hoped somehow, someway, the pale femme’s pride would rise beside the mounds of dirt and soil, that she could declare satisfaction and achievement at such an undertaking. The grateful, whimsical entity listened, smiled, and embarked into graceful, grateful finesses, obliged and appreciative of the moments given, of instances to be cherished and stored. Lowering her cranium in beholden glows, she delivered an elegant, softened aria, bending and granting reposeful diatribes. “I would love to, if you don’t mind.” She gestured to Imogen, who scampered and chirped alongside, still holding onto the precious herbs from rime and glaciers. It’d be an opportunity to explore what other minds could come up with, what could be shared amongst the Basin whims, what she could embody in her own homeland to ensure their safety; a gift she wouldn’t take for granted.

@[Alysanne] @[Resplendence]