Perhaps it was a Mender’s instinct or the Songbird’s vows, drenched, coated, veiled, soused and doused with all the inflections, all the notes, all the oeuvres of a virtuous being (so frequently torn, so distinctly muddled, but always cast just the same). Like a lantern light, like a siren’s wail, she was hastened and folded into the brink of desolation, forged and colliding with the chilling wickedness of the cold, of the harsh, winter reign, of the pinnacles and fires of everything Siberia had to bestow. And like every moment before this one, she arched domination, resolution, and determination, crossing over whirlwind treachery and lamentable dirges, listening to the mournful cries, the bellowing abyss, throwing her stubborn, chiseled jaw into the frame of supremacy and tempting its outcries. She reigned through adversity, clawed her way through its chains and shackles, unleashed torrents of pinnacle persistence, and layered down the worn lacquer of ice, rime, and debauchery.

But it was the strange, out-of-place hues unwinding amidst the powerful gusts of snow that urged her down the correct path – blue, so much blue, like the sea and the sky, rustling tales of gulls and seashells, and reality struck so vividly on the familiar pelt bursting through all the pure, unrelenting white. Tiamat. What was she doing out here in this miserable weather? Steadily, slowly, the pair followed, Imogen managing to stay beneath Lena’s long limbs, not wishing to be lost amongst a warren of white. The Songbird’s eyes narrowed and she cast no sonnets, no arias, no strains to get them by; nothing would be heard from such a distance in all the potent, pummeling elements. A beleaguered duo continued their battle within the onslaught, reigning vividly as beacons, as paragons, as saints holding out benedictions, descending and unwinding, unfurling and uncoiling, only reaching Tiamat’s side as they stepped within an icy cavern.

Then her eyes widened, shocked and surprised by the creature residing upon the cave floor: a tiger, barely resisting the strength and acrimony of winter’s ferocity. She listened to the other mare’s urgent pleas, to the shouts, to the cries, and hitched her pluck, grit, and stalwart essences higher, touching the cerulean femme briefly on the shoulder, a tender grace, a finessed, diligent trace of camaraderie and decisiveness. They could mend this ailing carnivore.

The nymph, covered and veiled by flakes and untamed features, began a series of commands, lowering her soft maw to the roughened pelt of the predator (shouldn’t they be running, shouldn’t they be hiding, from the great beast?), and murmuring dulcet croons. “She’s right, friend. You must get up quickly.” She shared a sprite wink with Tiamat, before ushering more demands towards Imogen, who paced at her side. “Perhaps you can start a small fire towards the back, my dear,” – the fox, glad for something to do other than staring at a massive, predacious cretin, sprinted down towards the indicated direction. Only thereafter did Lena begin her own demonstration of potency, standing beside Tiamat and the great, grand beast, harboring all the essences of time, all the hours and minutes and seconds coiled in her chest. Her eyes closed, her breathing slowed, and a sort of calm, composed ease slid through her spine, her barrel, her heart. In an instant, she conjured the flowing balms and alms of junctures, seconds, and instances, embarking the gilded light, the spiraling blessings, to enrapture the wounded spirit laid at their feet. It ignited and sparked along the lacerations, across the scars, upon the enamel and pelt of the tired, forlorn animal, pressing all the wiles, all the hopes, all the ambitions of her rank, of her aspirations, deep into the fathoms of her magic.