The Songbird paused in her steps, absorbing the tension, the apprehension, and faltering off to the side, crowded into the smoldering sand as a passing swallow or nestled finch, unthreatening and immobile. Perhaps their stigma still remained, of beasts and monsters, of mountainous behemoths, of treacherous snakes, but for as long as she’d lived in the walls and caverns, in the summits and hills, not once had they gnashed their teeth, ground their ferocity, their friction, into something unjust. They fought against a herd that invaded them, they yearned for those stolen to be returned, they drove onslaughts into kingdoms absconding their children, they needled and bombarded when perils and mayhem struck: constantly provoked, incited, and kindled. Like a restless beehive, bombarded by avaricious paws and claws – and the aurora peaks were always ones to respond to injustice, to vengeance, to annihilation. But she wouldn’t harbor ill will to a creature who only remembered bloodshed at the words of their frigid home, and so she slanted her eyes elsewhere, along the warped horizon and its humid tendrils, towards the rising dunes and their flickering whims of shoal and crimson earth, to the clouds hovering and framing the sun. She’d participated in each of them, a war-torn maiden singing violent hymns, crashing through mist and fog, careening over a land she’d once craved, but didn’t display the agony, the melancholy, verging within, giving space and rumination time to the Sun Physician. The silence didn’t sting, didn’t barb, didn’t lance, but merely simpered through the hot breeze, curling and fanning, ascending and falling, pitching a world of memories and munitions the Mender frequently left untouched (how she’d thrown herself moment after moment into frays, into skirmishes, into bestial warrens and left bruised, battered, and not herself, but defended them until she could no longer).

But the mercurial diatribe continued, and she lifted her gentle, warm eyes in the direction of Sikeax again, Imogen chirping at the measure of her esteem, watching as she tipped her sword in respect and generosity. A stifled breath loosened from her chest, a sense of ease pervaded, cast aside the weary, stiffening deliberations, lifting her spirit into its calm repose; and an invitation thrown into the mix. Truly, Lena hadn’t expected it. Though she’d been enchanted and beguiled into the Edge’s forest the moment she set eyes upon a familiar face, she’d known Alysanne for a lengthy amount of time, fire-forged friends locked underground during plagues and famines, but held no brethren connection with anyone from the Throat (that she was aware of – though Rei was quite a lovely ally). The fairy tried her best not to show her surprise or shock, inclining her grin a little wider, displaying and composing the beneficent chords of a mellifluous fey. “You’re too kind – I can’t resist such a wonderful invitation. Perhaps I could explain the herbs there?” Curiosity tickled over her sentiments, because the only other time she’d ventured anywhere near the Throat was to pull the Doctor out of its clutches, had never roamed so deep inward into a world that seemed like paradise and desolation all at once (was that how so many others saw the Basin – isolated, barren, but beautiful?). Imogen picked up the herbs, twirling and intending to follow, and the inquisitive nature of Lena’s mind resorted to one looming query as she too glided behind the pale mare. Her maw gestured towards the bridge, pondering over the possibilities: did one merely walk across? Did they float? Did they fly? Were they sent reeling, faltering, seeing stars and skies and constellations? “How does your lovely bridge work?”