Imogen began to chuckle first, amused and besotted and ultimately entertained by the stallion and his antics, chirping and chirruping aloud and through their connection – so all Lena felt was eternal merriment, contentment, sentiments and emotions that hadn’t floated through her senses in such a long, long time. She breathed in its peace, in its sanctity, in its sanctuary, building and forging the flickering flames of amusement and diversions. They were restless, wild coils within her, framing, painting, stroking an illustrious, luminescent, brilliant, blinding portrait, and she regaled it with her quiet, taffeta lace, drank in the serenity, in the silliness, exposing a an ever warmer grin for the stag’s efforts. Her gaze searched him, for injuries, for harmed layers beneath all the glamour, all the spots, all the brash movements; instead, she found a pair of mismatched eyes staring back at her – one for the sea, one for the earth, and the nymph could only speculate on how beautiful they were. Were they a signature of elements, a radiance, a rapture, of his potential and prowess? Did he possess skill of the forest, harbor invocations of the ocean? Was he destined for both: a creature, a cretin, of woods and pools, seizing tridents and sticks? She nearly asked, nearly pressed all those ringing curiosities and inquiries, but remembered she’d already coaxed one into the gathering, and when Imogen ceased her idle laughter, she was free to listen to his response. But he appeared rather sheepish, embarrassed by his display, and Lena couldn’t fault him for that; how many times had she been ashamed of her actions? How many times had she dove into ridiculous follies and tribulations? How many times had she paid the price for errors and mistakes? And when would she do it again?

Her smile sparked a jubilee, a hallelujah of the heavens, free of judgment, of scorn, of petulance, nefariousness or vulgarity, inclining her head to a straighter, more poised, finessed grace, peering at him as a sweet, sanguine paragon. “We’re all prone to such moments.” Understanding notched, compassion held, she continued to listen to his explanations, to his drama-queen tales, christening a grand note of laughter for herself, small, quiet delights trickling and tracing amidst her chest as she pictured an attacking butterfly, brandishing armor along its wings, or a threatening thorn bush, hastening its nettles towards unsuspecting haunches, rendering and granting him only the slightest, most miniscule tease thereafter. “They can be rather rude things. Best watch the pines too.” The nymph followed her quip with a wink, not wishing him to despair on her light taunt, continuing in the enticement of his words, of his vocals, of the silly meeting between sanctities and locked passages. The rest of her replies came on singsong arias and rhapsody strains, granting life and essence and rapture into the foolish follies, bestowing and granting the slightest, assuaging relief, an inkling of her powers. “A pleasure, Lysander.” Truly, for she hadn’t found relief or repose in such a weary time. She performed another bow for him, if a little higher, and anointed their names into the clearing. “I’m Lena, and this,” extending her soft maw towards the ivory vixen sniffing the air, rummaging closer to the spotted steed, “is Imogen.” A pause, a moment in the strands, before regarding his form, his eyes, once more, proffering her Songbird qualities all over again, beginning to summon the duties, the rituals, of the world before her. “Welcome to Helovia. Is there something you seek here?”