Masters of dance, of minuets, of boleros, of waltzes, pulsed and crusaded along the winter’s icy path, polished rime folds with laced, dulcet whims, wove brilliant, blinding finesse through their rhythmic beats and their timeless raptures. Like doves, like nightingales, like sparrows, they glided, they manifested wings, they perfected unique, blessed movements and motions – and sometimes the nymph even sang, accompanied their artful, graceful strides with arias, strains, and symphonies. The winter’s vestiges didn’t plague them, didn’t churn them, didn’t maul or scorch or maim their hides; and so they offered up blessings and invocations, beneficence and well wishes, chastised the wayfaring might of nefarious qualities and brandished wholesome heights. Refusing to sink into the melancholy of passing seasons, refusing to delve and dive and drown in unrelenting angst or bitter, acrid sorrows, they molded to the framework of pines and firs, made portraits of snow and icicles, grew stark and vivid against constant ivory scenes. The vixen chirped and the Songbird chanted, and together they were one and the same, beautiful, blinding beasts and naiads, elements of the earth, the moon, the sky, the inner light, the tender, tranquil warmth of the sun, and the frantic beat of benevolence. Perhaps, one day, they’d be able to pluck the sinister, savage beacons away, croon over vicious sirens, embolden and incense more of the charitable; but this hour was made for assisting those left to the unknown, fledglings with more burdens to bear, with shells, with vessels, seeking absolution. Sweets to the sweet, they twisted and turned in unison towards the locked routes and the gilded trails, winding down familiar roads, murmuring nothings and everythings, flicking an ear, raising a head, widening nares, hoping, praying, to find someone to take back to paradise.

All they heard, however, was a quick, discordant crash.

The pair, fox and nymph, followed the strange cacophony, listened to the brief grunts and snorts echoing across the tundra channels, the wild, desolate groves, too entrenched and segmented into curiosity to do anything but track the insistent sounds. Quiet, silken, taking in slight, miniscule breaths, they wandered past shrubs and bushes left to Frostfall’s chill, and came upon the source. A varnished stag, spotted and segmented into particular, crisscrossed hues, embellished with a fine horn, a blade mired in contorted, distorted design – like crooked hands or gnarled branches, reaching and snagging – but his movements were all the more inquiring. He maneuvered like a cretin, intent upon scorching and summoning and obliterating someone or something, irritated, vexed, and scorned. She glanced towards Imogen for a moment, and they shared a mutual shrug, both deeply unsure of the possibilities layered and lacquered within the clearing, of the man who bristled and brandished words with the rest of the world. But her compassionate nature, her giving graces, summoned all the determination, all the resolutions, chiseled and sculpted to her bones, to her muscles, to her features, so when she and the ivory vixen stepped within the threshold’s embrace, there were only smiles, there were only hopes, there were only whims and fancies scattered across their faces. The sylph dipped her head in greeting, though she was likely unnoticed during his stomping, amidst his tirade, and tilted her head in slow, regarding fashion, amiable, honeyed eyes searching for his. She carried a simple sonnet, a beautiful, harmonious flute, providing mellifluous bounties along the crisp, belligerent tones. “Are you all right?”