Full of promises and convictions, the naiad drummed a serene beat to the tune of jasmine and carnations. She coated the tundra in determined sprite escapades, a fairy on the mend, a virtuous plume donning its rightful hues and shades. She danced with fey delight, roaming from underbrush to bough, seeking and imploring several herbs and plants, endeavoring them to a cherished travel, plucking them from their enriched shelter with sweet whispers and delicate oaths. Imogen followed her ritual, entangling a few bits of shrubbery and greenery within her ivories, tugging until their roots ambled into the summer vestiges, soil falling back to where it once thrived. Neither thought of horrors, of terrors, of nightmares plaguing and foiling back into webbed burns sparked and incensed across the Mender’s ethereal essence, neither spoke of trials or tribulations, and neither embarked into dark shadows or malicious intentions; sketching and outlining the same task they’d composed for the misty, haunting Edge. The nymph pushed aside any weary outlook, any undermining hesitation, honing her craft, her acknowledgments towards a new treaty, a brandished armistice, keening her finessed graces of persistence, of rapture, of reveries, as the world tried to desperately renew itself from all of its rampaging preambles.

Because, in truth, Lena didn’t know too many immersed and cloaked in Throat banners; the last few times she’d ventured into its confines had been for abducted, absconded citizens (and goodness, how many seasons ago had that been?). She hadn’t gone for war (her frame had been set into violent upheaval amidst the poignant Edge, where she could have seen her death and demise over the cliff, where she seared and smoked a token soldier). She hadn’t wandered in for feral curiosities and indulgent caresses, staying away from the sandy sanctuary for tucked away eons. Her expectations were narrowed and skewed, hopeful and buoyant, but otherwise tethered to naught. They’d apparently arrived to trade for cloth: they’d likely take in a few granted and bestowed plants.

Once they’d acquired the necessary herbs (a few of the pasque flower, the Labrador tea, a handful of bearberries), the pair maneuvered south, roaming as nomads and Romani, gypsy entanglements and wayfaring citizens of the north bound to waltzing steps, plunging into elegance and composure through the wakes of other countries and empires; down through the Arch and its caverns, simmering along the fringe of the Threshold’s gateway designs, extending and elongating beside the Thistle Meadow’s wide, encroaching stream, before resting near the Heart Caves. Nearly there, dewed and coated in a mere outcropping of sweat (because Tallsun’s glaze was a match for their journey), vixen and Songbird checked on their parcels, neatly fitted into Imogen’s maw, and then took the final steps of their sojourn, winding their way into sand, into dunes, flanked by beaches, by heat, by sun.

The world had altered since her last moments there; her eyes widened in a subtle trace of their changes. The island glimmered far beyond, wide and entrancing, alluring and beguiling, but ultimately inaccessible, a bridge in the midst brimming like an enigma, a mystery she wouldn’t be permitted to solve. Instead of wandering where she likely wouldn’t be welcome, the sylph altered a few mellifluous chords, carefully chosen, winding their way in a beckoning hallelujah, in a serenading trance, in a wondrous aria, branching through the hovering oasis and the parched skies. Perhaps, if they were lucky, they’d be entreated to a warm welcome, otherwise, she could always leave the plants on the borders (but feared they’d be shriveled, dried, empty and anguished before anyone arrived for them). So they waited, patient, intrepid angels in the daylight, carved from ice, harmonies, and affability, eager to cross over mishaps, mayhem, and callousness with benevolence and beneficence.

[Herb delivering/gifts from the Basin! ^_^]