you're a fraud and you know it
but it's too good to throw it all away
While war was waged in the distant south, the Basin went undisturbed. It was quiet in a way that reminded the Thief of the sanctuary, empty, hollow, void of life and light. The telltale chill of Orangemoon lingered in the air, bleeding through the northern winds and sinking into the earth. Gray and angry clouds gathered overhead, threatening snowfall in the wake of their turbulence, stealing the sun's rays in their dark masses. All was well within the valley. By midmorning, Roland had left the silent company of the sentinels, running a familiar track around the Basin's edge as he checked the darkest depths of the caves, skirted the hot springs with a longing glance thrown the way of the rising steam; he meandered his way up into the labyrinthine foothills, through the toppling pillars of sparse pines, the hallowed archways and corridors of the northern kingdom. Their prisoner had been successfully apprehended, her escape prevented by the many that had answered the Engineer's call, and he had no doubts that she was once again tucked safely into their cells. He felt sorry for the girl, that she had been their chosen prisoner of war, hidden away, stolen from her home, but the Thief was all too familiar with the ways of war, of leverage, of security and surety. She was not likely to rot away behind frosted bars, but they could not let her go when victory was not yet within their grasp.
Much to his relief, they had not been disrupted further. Roland had come to feel he was the only one within the Basin's walls, a lonely, single, isolated soul smothered beneath the towering peaks. He watched the golden rays of sunset and sunrise alike slide across the hunched shoulders of the mountains, awaiting the return of his family.
The peace he had hoped for in their absence, so far away from the havoc and mayhem of battle, was not long lasting. It was all too soon broken by a call for assistance, sewing discord and desperation into the autumn winds. A howl, the notes familiar and unsettled as they carried across the rocks and to the shadowed outcrop the Thief had been passing by. He had come to know that voice well, in all of its mischievous elements and strains, every delighted chirp and chime. It guided Roland's steps, pushing his feet across the ground in a flurry of motion the moment her call reached his ears. This was not the sound of a creature at ease, and over the years he had become well acquainted with her every exclamation. Something was wrong.
Without a blanket of white snow to coat the ground, Imogen was an easy find amongst the earthen hues of the Basin's plains, an alabaster speck against muted greens and colourless gray slate. The Thief's limbs were coated in mud from the recent rainfall when he reached her, concern in his gaze and a readiness to his posture. D'artagnan and his hellhound had arrived first, no doubt summoned by the same cry that had garnered his own attention. He glanced around, searching for the Mender and finding her nowhere in sight, when he had known the pair to be near inseparable. "Imogen?" He asked, a breathless note to his voice as his chest heaved and his gaze roamed the empty flats. The Nightshade spoke before him, posing the very question that had been on Roland's tongue. He glanced back to the kitsune, worry tying knots of dread in the pit of his stomach. "Has something happened?"
@[Lena]
sometimes you even fool yourself a bit
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[O] the sweetest of words have the bitterest taste
