The mystery persisted, chiseling deeper into the funnels of the unknown, one more stroke on a tapestry, canvas, painting, of the all the strangeness of Helovia and the enigmas she couldn’t fathom. She’d yet to come across too many fluttering and swaying near the icy borders; too often they were emboldened by the chase of danger, by the allure of treachery, or never bothered to stray very close, knowing stories, myths, and legends of the unwanted and those who’d persisted. Her mind whirled, her ears twisted, and her attention diverted from the stag, for a singular moment (because if no one else was to show, she’d be the only guard, the only phantom, to knock back threats and condemnations – the notion alone was sickening and sent a dreaded weight through her chest) as one more appeared. The mare, gilded and unfamiliar, seemed to know who the stranger was – and Lena was left with anonymous portraits and depictions stretching over the bounty of familiarity beneath her feet and behind her frame – a juxtaposition of shifting sentiments and arched brows. But Eldala, pressing her name into the wind, seemed to pose nothing, more questions than answers, and the Songbird followed suit, bestowing the smallest of guarded smiles. “I’m Lena – a Time Mender here.” And then her attention diverted completely back to the crimson stallion as he lingered, perhaps not a threat, perhaps not an omen of treachery or deceit, but requiring some form of explanation for why he meandered so close to their home.

Her gaze softened, however, as he seemed to fumble and stumble, a mild bout of panic cluttering and cloaking his words. The edge of her crown tipped, head tilting, basking in the curiosity, in the intrigue and interest, of the layers and responses unfolding from his words – Rift, from the Dragon’s Throat, coming to harvest herbs. The last bits of tension drained away from her figure, and her grin emblazoned, effervescent and blinding, curled back into place, because despite all the wars, all the monstrosities both herds had managed to amass upon one another in the years she’d served, those small, lovely moments of peace had sprung. She was not one to intrude on repose. She was not one to trespass upon tranquility. She preferred it, relished it, held it aloft in hopes everyone else could see, could be inspired, could reflect and act on heartfelt whims and courteous graces instead of delving back into hatred, into wrath, into invasions and crusades. “A pleasure, Rift. Perhaps we could aid your search?” No longer perceiving him as a threat, her compassion whittled itself back over the fronds of regret and rue, forgoing the despondency, the forlorn nettles leading her into the snowy threshold, and leaving Imogen at the border, she drew closer, advancing along the intertwining lanes of small, delicate, unsung plants waiting to assist. Fellow healers should’ve been united, like she and Alysanne, like she and Sikeax, forever intending to draw away the monstrosities their compatriots seemed to muster; she grinned all the while, lining herself mere feet away from the red beast and his crème companion. “Is there something in particular you’re hoping to find?”