Despite the raw beauty and sullen awe of Orangemoon, the Songbird hadn’t ventured too far out into its void. Perhaps the crisp, fallen leaves and the cold, chilling way in which nature decayed – elegant, but withering, refined, but wilting, wasn’t what she cared to witness. She stayed amongst the freshly fallen snow instead, wandering through their precious, laden crystals and fine powder, gathering bits and pieces of herbs still tucked beneath heavily-laden boughs or tangled moss. Months were soon approaching where there would be no access to any plants at all; when the tundra was locked in its eternal abyss, frozen in time, in space, and the plants nestled within their caverns would be the only stores available for mending. Her magic was strong, powerful, and righteous – but no one knew what the future held, no one knew what twisted, contorted designs and mechanisms the world had concocted, and she’d rather be prepared than face the immoral, heartless, licentious void alone. Sometimes a song, a tune, would not be enough, and could only become a dirge, a lament, a requiem.
 
They pressed amongst the stones and rubble, puttering along the winding caves, Imogen providing a guiding light with her gentle embers dancing along the edge of her tails. Lena peeked and searched, eyes roaming their vast stores, pieces of willow-bark or diamond-leaf, stems drying from the heat of fires and the dry nourishment of the earth. She smiled, gently, winking towards her bonded, lowering her maw to ensure proper scents and cleanliness of the plants, before wandering back, further and further – perhaps hoping to get lost in the endless array, the eternal diversions, sweeping away all the other thoughts, all the other sentiments, to the back of her mind. The nymph always strived to forget, but forever neglected the duty, tormenting herself despite her strong will, despite her convictions, despite all her resolution, determination, and everything she stood for. Her gaze went from stalk to stalk, stem to stem, formidable and enduring, as if she was old as the walls herself, having seen and done and remembered so many wondrous and horrible things.
 
She would’ve traversed deeper and deeper, maybe until she became truly, utterly strayed, frozen in place, another one of the statues amongst the granite, but a voice reverberated through the grand hall, familiar and bold, ensuring and snatching her attention from the melancholy oaths strung through her heart. The lithe sylph released a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding, watched it puff and flicker away in the darkness, and when Imogen chirped her back into life, she committed a small, tender grin, and followed her from whence they came – dignified, regal, and gentle, not allowing the world to see she was slowly falling apart.
 
Her eyes adjusted back into the light as the figure became framed in a silhouette of the gray, bitter sky outside her walls, blinking once or twice to rid herself of the reverie haunting her, developing one more beam when she drew nearer to the black figure of Mortuus Nox. While Imogen traced her way towards her side, the Mender greeted him with warmth and camaraderie, bowing her head against her chest, recalling the days from seasons before, when the man had seemed naught more than a beast, burdened by his own demons. Her voice, airy and light, traveled along the aperture, good and just and benevolent, appearing the same as always. “I am. How can I help you, Nox? I trust you’re doing well?” Her careful, scrutinizing stare caught the tender shoots and leaves of more herbs resting within his maw, and while curiosity dazzled, she said not a word about it, presuming he’d have some explanation without her prying or ferreting.