The Songbird whittled her way through the forest outcrops and the tundra regime, trying to remember how to flutter instead of slink and crawl. The herd meeting was a nuance she was partial to gathering and collecting herself for, not where one could simply drown themselves in the weight of their recent sorrows. So she remembered flight, and dancing, and waltzing across grounds with a petal-soft movement, not drawing eyes to the riddles and blights of burn scars across her spine, along her side, bending and swaying with the breeze like her namesake, a drifting swallow on the wind. She meandered within the middle, poised aloft as a nightingale, lilting and harmonic, albeit a trifle confused at Ophelia’s presence (had she been wandering off for so long that she never noticed or heard of the new Lady? A bite of shame tore through her; saddened by Illynx’s departure, broadened in her ignorance of Ophelia’s ascension). She shuffled a tiny whisper, a bow in the Forsake's direction, a quick wink to set her mind at ease. "Congratulations." Her pulse quickened at the mention of Confutatis and the Regime, for she’d been there, the healer cast down onto their suffering, and it’d been a brutal, barbaric twist to her soul, to see these poor rattled children and their dear, beloved mother, Arah – she swallowed her gasp and sigh, listened closely for other bits of information she’d require. The murders, another motion of the melancholy, and her gaze tore away from her leaders for a few moments to see if Ode had joined them, still alive, still whole, not a figment of her imagination, not a permanent stature of hallucinations and visions. Gaucho, a name she wasn’t wholly familiar with, and the Moon Goddess, a traitorous edge again. She pressed her lips together and offered naught but a downcast stare traveling the length of the melting rime and summer grass, prospering over what she could bestow to the cadre now. Breathing in, gathering strength, the nymph raised her gaze to both Deimos and Ophelia, shaping her smile into a whimsical grin, an ebullient sketch, a warbling demonstration of aria potency. “I’ve recently traveled to the Edge to deliver herbs. I can do the same for the Throat, to show our support and armistice.” They’d remarked upon new healers as well (and she wondered what had become of her fellow Time Menders, lost in the mist and swirl; D’art, the poisons master, and Tangere, the willing newcomer?), so she proffered her arts and skills to the mass. “If anyone would like training, please come see me. I’m always willing to provide lessons.”