Faelene’s voice dappled and glistened over the scenery, and Lena’s smile enraptured every contour of her face, as if problems and dilemmas had never occurred, as if no tribulations sank into her bones, as if misery hadn’t had a calling into her schemes. A dazzling array of warmth pooled amongst her swift, beating heart, chased by an elegant emphasis on amiability, affability, benevolence, cherished those beloved moments that seemed lifetimes ago. The dim apertures chiseled into heavenly glows and beatific designs, molding in the fine, exquisite reach of maws; she followed the lines of familiar pelt and hide, regaled with her own light touch, burying all her fondness, all her delight, into those dainty, tangible instances. Imogen chirped at her feet, dancing between sticks, stones, and soil, gesturing wildly with her own polished exuberance, and Lena had some many queries, so many inquisitions – if she poured them all they’d never leave the confines before nightfall. Faelene’s question was the highlight though, and as the nymph drew away, she pondered over how to answer. How long had it been? When had Faelene disappeared, into the murk and mist, like so many of the others? Her thoughts attempted to snag and grab hold of a specific timeline (before the wraiths, after the pestilence?), and struggling ensnaring one more or another. Instead, her eyes drifted towards babbling streams and glowing insects, standing amidst Tallsun glory and wondering where to begin, how to start. With murders and mayhem? With disappeared sovereigns? With the way of the unknown? Her grin returned, tucked in the corner of her lips, and the singsong melody began, spinning through the webs and eaves of the great forest. “The Basin is fine, despite the recent stream of slaughter. There’s been a mysterious assassin on the loose.” Hardly a way to describe the wonder and regality of Helovia, but she had no wish to shy and shield the strong, enduring mare from the truth; surely she’d rather live in the cluster of veracity than sink into ignorance. She grappled with the next set of news, not knowing or understanding how the red-maned would take the information, how she would harbor it, how she would react to the weight. “Psyche and Tolio, were, unfortunately, amongst those deceased.” The gentle whims and caprices seemed folly now, and she held no yearning or wish to dive into Illynx’s vanishing. Was there anything happy she could note? Any bit of cheer to invoke? The sylph pressed her lips together in a fine line, drawn deep into thought, into something meaningful not flagged or flanked in misery. When she could think of naught, and that in itself was a depressing blight, the Mender’s eyes drifted back over to her returned comrade, prying into bits and pieces of Faelene’s adventures; surely they were more chivalrous. “What of your stories? Your exploits and escapades?”