The nymph moved like water, like a leaf, like the elegant, entangled elements, all bright, incandescent facets and vestiges, and combined into one motion. She left behind the pieces of her melancholy, she stoked the finer edges of her magnificence, and she clambered for the portions of her soul that still held those firm, beautiful resolutions and promises. In her days away from home she’d seen and witnessed the crowning of two new Kings, she’d heard the backdrop of war from her abductor’s home, and she’d pulsed with chaotic whirls of ineptitude: and held no notion of spiraling back into its sanction in the near future. Instead of falling, of flickering, of withering, she ricocheted, she echoed, she sang for the spirits, for the laurels, for all the sylphs and angels nestled in her care, she closed her eyes and thought of soothing, assuaging presences, of the earth blossoming without blood beneath its stems, without fire scorching its horizon. The fairy thought of a realm without hardship, without pain, without refugees and scarred children, and descended into the frozen valley that had hardened her, that had polished her, that had made her prosper from the forgotten ghosts of cliff tops and ocean views. Here, amidst the pines, the firs, the summits, the peaks, she held purpose, she held worth, could wash away battle-weary faces and restore, mend, blistered brutes and bludgeoned barbarians (or was it selfish to think of herself in this way; needed, necessary, a contributing figure?). Here, she was not just a shadow, not just a silhouette, not just a figure lost in the crowd; and she had to find a way to ensure others like herself were not the neglected, discarded cretins flickering and hovering about the horizon. They were more, much more, than the realms and sovereigns gave them credit for, like a priceless, incandescent gift, granted and anointed and consecrated into life-giving aspirations, and if the world dared to look away from their potency, if the empires never gleamed them dignity, the Songbird would take it upon herself to stitch the rift. No more fading whims, no more dimming lights, no more vanishing, disappearing acts – all of them were strong, enduring, and capable.

So she called for them, the wise, the powerful, the young and the old, reaching and extending her maw, her presence, her essence, rupturing the chilling Orangemoon winds with delicate, cordial traces, whispering fortitude over the ramparts, chiseling tranquility in the cherished, graceful filaments, regarding each and every mending individual like one of her own. They were brethren, they were kin, they were family and friends - from the cold, aloof Doctor, to the newcomers, bright and wide-eyed and ready to revive the broken slivers and splinters of the discordant kingdoms. Imogen sparked a trail of embers behind her, like beautiful, enticing invitations, not blazing, not infernal, but welcoming, embracing, attempting to tie together the strings of their bountiful sovereignty: the realm deserved their regard, their growth, and their vigilance. She yearned to see their capabilities, their curiosities, their minds opened and chimed to a world of possibilities, to hear their stories, to answer their questions, to encompass and embody the nurtured abyss. Beneath the noon-sun, with its cool embrace and eager veneer, she composed and unraveled a song for all of them, a siren near the un-freezing lake, a beacon, an opus, a symphony, layered and lacquered for the Basin.

[Healers’ meeting for @[d'Artagnan] @[Renegade] @[Tilney] @[Varath]

Also tagged @[Adelric] because I know he's interested in healing, but not required to come if you don't have time or interest.

Set around noon by the lake. ;D There will be herb lessons, cupcakes, etc.]