In the midst of the stories, the silence, and the mountains, the Songbird fluttered and fought her way to the surface with harpsichord dreams and honeysuckle aspirations, but didn’t know how to settle, didn’t know how to grasp, didn’t know what intentions simmered along the way. The puzzle, the conundrum, was as vexing as it was enticing, so she sauntered beneath the heavy, hollow gazes of the rusted Sentinels and waited; tilting her head to the vaguest degree and smiling at the crimson vagabond with nothing but lightness and ethereal, dulcet charm. The unknown crossed over her mind and spiraled in complexing degrees, made her wonder if she should lean into him or tease him, if she should run across the snow-laden fields to see if he’d follow, if she should laugh again and everything would be at ease. She felt like she stared at him for too long, but she hadn’t had her sights filled with him for seasons, for ages, for cycles, so she continued gazing at him as if it’d never be enough, lifted her lips in the same warm, beckoning smile, and bowed her head to the metallic, solemn guardians. Her steps were ebullient and tender, soft, airy movements like motions in a quiet symphony, turning back and forth to grin and threaten – intending to ripple along the plains in one audacious sprint, wild and bold, emblazoned with glory and virtue. She lingered for half a moment though, caught in the rich serenade of the wind and the summit, before attempting some sort of response, a reply, jovial and quick, pondering over what his next actions were to be (if she should be gone somewhere, leave him alone to find himself in the rime and frost again, if he would implore her to go about the rest of her day while he embraced the thought of home). “What would you-" and then the rest of her vocals, sweet and sugared, full of sonnets and rhythm, uncertainty laced with all the bright, regal radiance she’d ever managed to hold, were cut off by another’s approach.
 
It took a breath for her to regain some ounce of serenity, tranquility, and repose, too caught up in the sights, the sounds, of Roland’s presence to sense one more individual rising from the valley, but she applied her token smile again as Tangere granted welcomes and well wishes. Foolishness struck her temple and made Imogen chuckle and chirp lightly somewhere to her left (smitten, smitten she might have said, and Lena endeavored not to blush), and the Mender remained steadfast, composed, compassionate despite the apprehension curling over her sides. “Tangere!” Her voice rang, beautiful and harmonic, delving into her mellifluous nature through art and song, dipping her head once in a lilting bow, before partaking in one more vigilant grin. “I hope you’re well. What have you been up to?” While Imogen sauntered towards Roland’s front, sat amongst the powder and fanned her tails in obvious amusement, the Songbird continued the sketch of her beneficence, presiding towards one of her own in the same grace, the same refinement as before; ignoring the gentle nudge of the unknown, of what would come next, leaving it all to chance, to kismet, to serendipity. “Quite pleasant,” and here, she answered with a silly wink to Roland and merriment towards Tangere, and for once it wasn’t a bountiful lie or a lyrical pretense; a heartfelt minuet – all was right within the world.