They spent the idle hours of daybreak’s regime by casting warm glows around the lake, settling along the shore, solidifying a powerful stance amidst the short, sloping beach. Nothing like the ocean, it gave her great comfort and peace, despite her drumming veins and an echo of her swift heart, and here, under the watchful guard of Imogen, she breathed, crooned, and harpooned. More of an indulgence, more of a conjuring of might and will, to brush over the apprehension searing in her restless wake, she began a sweet melody, like delicate, shimmering waves, hastening and caressing them over the serene current, the docile, tranquil foils, weaving them in and out of the skyline. The notes polished and lacquered, one dream to another, balancing and unwinding, graceful curls and fronds, gentle plumes and vigilant streams, and all at once, she altered the formation, watched the repose scatter. Summoning a passionate decree, remembering panic, ire, and injustice, the intonation and inflection warbling from her throat morphed, no longer the delicate songbird, but a blistering phoenix, unfurling a rampant outcry, a bellicose reverie. From the crescendos, the unwavering strength, the demonstrative fortitude, came the Sun God’s promise and prowess, ignited and enlightened, embers cast over the lake, a fiery abyss, a blaze, an inferno, and she watched for a series of moments as they burst, rapid, quick, fleeting, down into the water, quenched and sated. Over and over again, as she fanned over the strings, the elements, they rose and fell, lilting and glorious, treacherous and luminescent, boiling and surging below the babbling water. The kitsune chirped here or there, but Lena forgot to listen, shaking absentmindedly in the warm, summer haze, unsure of what to do, how to feel, lost in a sultry daze, overwhelmed by the power suddenly streaming through her, something she’d requested. She shook her head once or twice, attempting to be rid of the frightening demonstration, forgoing curiosity and potency in the dawning junctures of light and sun, choosing to quell more beneficent melodies, more cordial sonnets, more rapturous arias and sinuous strains, erasing the relentless puissance she’d shown. There, they stayed and strayed, the ivory vixen’s mouth drawn into a weary sort of ambience, and the other elegantly honed on the skyline, the horizon, the disappearing stars and the flourishing wiles, holding onto capricious whims a little while longer in the back of her mind.

She’d lost track of the morning by the time the Thief approached, distantly shrouded in peace, in contentment, in forged repose; the pale fox had given no warning alarm (naught but the slightest bob towards the roaming brigand, the delicate balance of a smirk to match his). The nymph only heard the shuffle of feet, the subtle, soft descent of the circlet, the earnest call of salutations. The fairy, caught unaware, had the briefest time to flush and blush, catching the sight of the gilded ring lying in the grass, before returning his gaze and greetings; a wispy, dainty tune, floating on the wings of the unknown, straining not to wonder if he’d liked the gift, if he wanted it to disappear into the folds of the snaking lawn… “Good morning.” Then Roland looked down, upon the glowing object, and her cheeks, her face, her features burned, flaring with uncertainty, peering down at the little ornament, struggling not to waver and pry, ask and query, if he enjoyed the bestowal. Perhaps it was nothing, of no use to him, cumbersome and displeasing, and her nerves began to sizzle and smolder fractions more, dragging their apprehension down the length of her limbs and falling to her brow, furrowed and staring at the embellished ruby along the ground. Imogen muttered several sweet nothings across their bond, well wishes, sudden, absolute convictions, but the Mender didn’t nourish any, flailing and quaking in silence.

But the Thief's question held more power, more prestige, than any other answer he could have given. For a few seconds, Lena merely held his gaze and gaped, jaw slackened, maw opened but incapable of forming any words, before she snapped it shut with the vigilance of a composed noble, while her essence simply softened, dissolved, a pulsing, vibrant harmony sculpted, molded, from her heart. “Of course.” Determined, for she would show nothing else, she lowered her mouth to the vibrant, intricate trinket, enclosed her lips over its center with an ardent caress, with a smooth, devoted kiss, and drew her head back towards the heavens, gazing over his proffered horn. It felt poignantly intimate, as if she was bestowing far more than just a circlet along his rapier – maybe her heart, beating and fluttering over the wake of his sword, where it would sit and reign, trusted and beholden, protected and guarded. The fey’s breath mingled softly, gently, over his brow, rustling tassels of his forelock, as she carefully released and relinquished her hold on the bauble, brushing her lips over the keen balance of his blade; instigating a single query in the opulent amity. “Do you like it?”


@[Roland]