He grew braver, and she watched, one more careful guardian, as he approached rock, rubble, and machine. The Songbird had grown used to the chimes, the bells, the whistles of the sentinel’s own flourishing tunes, the whirring musicality of a well-running machine, the silent gaze, the stoic resolve of the metallic motors. She could see the other beast’s mind whirling, a thousand queries and questions tumbling through his gaze, though she wasn’t sure if she was the right one to provide any answers – the duty should have fallen to the creator, Ulrik. Her righteous flutes spoke again, churning into the midst, breaking apart the hushed spheres and pondering venues, interrupting only to apply more details and particulars where they may be deemed necessary. “If you’re interested about their creation, perhaps you may find Ulrik, our Weaver and engineer.” Her smile broadened into a winsome, charismatic state, stare sweeping over the fringes of the twin contraptions all over again, listening for another moment where she could provide remnants and vestiges into the puzzling, befuddling world. Only when he’d pulled away, either satisfied by his abundant curiosity or eager to immerse himself deeper into the Basins’ fathoms, embarking into his own grin and unfurling a series of potent words, did Lena also become entrapped in a singular shiver.

The words should have seized her into a state of pure contentment, as if she were a shield, armor, a sword in the reach of day and night, bestowing, proffering, offering the keen edge of her blade, the acrimonious tinge of her phrases, the twisting, turning revolution of her own serpent prowess; but instead, they ached, dull and hollow. Something in her body sunk, perhaps her heart, perhaps her sentiments, plunging into a collapsing bounty, a loathsome stone, shattering away the gallantry of warmth. How many had she kept safe, and how many had she endangered on her travels? How many had she been incapable of saving (those that disappeared, vanished, vanquished - lost into shards and mist and slivers and fragments, never to been seen again)? How many had she sworn to protect, and led them into slaughter? Unholy images pressed against the back of her eyes, flailing scars and searing knives, dancing the fleeting, blinding nuances of failure, and she managed to engulf her denial in a series of gulps and swallows, trying to smother down the ghoulish howl of rebuttals and contradictions. What of Ode, the little child scarred by demons, murdered thereafter, and brought back to life by his mother – only to see her dead as he reawakened? What had she done for him? What of Roland, traipsing, following, her beck and call because she’d been frightened, because she’d been selfish, because she’d instigated a silly, insipid journey, and almost had both of them killed for her efforts? How safe would he have felt if left to collapse in a pile of ash, in a pit of embers? The nymph looked away as Imogen snorted along their connection, staring across the vivid horizon, the holy shroud, the vivid temple of ice and snow, and wondered of how little she’d done, and how many debts she owed. She mustered a thin smile, nowhere near the wonderful, grand, opulent one she’d granted him before, twisting her eyes towards the stars, the heavens, and the outline of the earth, bitterly consumed by the essence of her failures. Her tone betrayed naught, amused, bubbling, fervent, while her insides unraveled from the bout, the duel, of strengths and weaknesses. “Thank you.” She winked, either to comfort him or herself.

But a distraction waned in the distance, bright, gilded, golden under the surveying moon, and the Mender took the opportunity to be swallowed and riveted upon a new fascination, so the young stag couldn’t see all the embittered pieces of her soul. The newcomer seemed fresh and eager, no one she knew, no one she’d seen before, another face melding and molding into their chilling chasms, and Lena’s grin grew all over again, a scorching floret presiding in the house of cold-blooded mercenaries. The other femme appeared sweet, tranquil, dipping into amiable qualities, and the Mender wondered how she’d wandered from the depths of nowhere to land here, amongst the pieces of stone and ice. “A pleasure, Rexanna. I’m Lena, a Time Mender.” She paused, gaze maneuvering and motioning between the duo of newcomers, drinking away her fleeting melancholies, chasing after ruminations and calculations, searching and seeking how to integrate the similar beings. Her voice came across once more, gentle and dulcet, drifting and honeyed towards the femme, granting Ashamin the chance to make his own introductions, and flourishing the poetical towards the Basin itself, with its walls, fortresses, and wild ramparts. “Have you found the Basin to your liking?”

@[Ashamin] @[Rexanna]