For once, the Songbird had nothing to fret or fear, nothing barbing, sharp and caustic, hovering over her soul, dark and maligned, bestial and strange, barbaric and nefarious. Her heart was light, buoyant, ebullient, coasting along stars and streaming across the sky, airy and ethereal, tangible and strong. The femme’s mind could easily wax poetical on her latest ventures, instead of diving in amongst the melancholy runes and the relentless upheavals of her past – so when the morning came, rising amidst the clouds, warm and pleasant (labyrinths where she didn’t get lost, galaxies behind her eyes, friends in need but capable, strong, enduring lifelines, buds unfurling, blossoms sailing towards Elysium), she gave into its bliss and stretched from the confines of her cave. A pleasant tune curled past her lips, singsong ambitions and aspirations coiling into rose petals and dulcet whims, extending a smile when the chords reached past the canopies and caverns, winding along a portion of the breeze and willing its way beyond sunshine and daffodils. From then on, the tunes didn’t cease, even when Imogen awakened and chirped, earning a wink from her bonded, or when her mouth was full of herbs – the hums still managed to mingle along the edges of her soul and pull into the vast corridors.
 
There was no singular reason for her musings; they were combined with content, tender sentiments, and she obliged them with effervescent ease, twirling back and forth on dawn determination as they mulled back and forth, back and forth, from the greenhouse and the healers’ ward, grabbing leaves from their dried portions, rooted back within shadows or sunlight, then placing them directly into the glassy sanction. The duo would pause occasionally, glancing over where a particular plant had been placed, pondering if it was a suitable area for the tiny shrub or the delicate flower, then tenderly maneuvered them to another location. Sometimes, in between their movement from frame to frame, they would dance, wild and silly, fairy-esque, pretending they had a crown of lilies enshrouded on their head and they couldn’t cease waltzing because of the enchanting, spellbinding music. Lena would extend her hooves in an lengthy, beautiful lift, and Imogen would copy, and they’d laugh before the next set of herbs was tucked into their maws, committing the same actions over and over again – a harmonic rapture and reverie stoked in finery, purpose, and absolute silliness. Without an audience, they were sublime tapestries and canvas of fey ambience, irrepressible, undaunted, playing chirps and arias as if born to the roles, suitable to spring about in fields of clover, thistle, and lilac. Her songs filled the sanctuary, echoing along the chambers, overflowing the ruins of shadow and Stygian holes, reverberating in wondrous, mellifluous vestiges – a refrain of the tranquil and serene.

[BASIN CHOIR SQUAD. <3]