The Songbird was wildly content – heart, mind, and soul cast into the sunbeams and the harmonic reverie, watching over idle chitchat, parading through the soft lights of snow and the approach of spring. She wished all days could be like this, peaceful, full of repose and sanctuary, no worries, no fears, no trials or tribulations, no hint of shadows or battles, just the long, sweeping sentiment of kindness, beneficence, and everything in between. These hours were meant to be cherished, clasped and clenched lightly in case they dared to flicker away, faltering off into more maddening backdrops and calamitous pursuits, and she wished she could paint a picture of it. Her strokes would be steady and full of vivid, wondrous color, hues that matched the beautiful dawn, Tangere’s coat of patched grays (dapples of argent and silver, like steel, like silk), and Roland’s sharp, crimson figure aligned against the endless sea of white powder, crystals, and ice. She’d put smiles on their faces and rapture in their eyes, encase them all in lacquer so it couldn’t be altered or tainted, and she’d place it upon some cavern mantle for everyone to know, for everyone to see, how simply, how wonderful, everything could be without barbs, without thorns. But she was no artist; only a healer, only a composer, writing out songs, ditties, and refrains that could encompass mending, soothing tones or dastardly, dark, dangerous insinuations – so she tucked the image in her head for safekeeping instead, embroidered it in fine lace and woven satin, pondered over how many dreams could be made real, or everything was mere fantasy. Her grin ceased to fade though, glancing at all of them, huddled together in the great opening maw of the Basin, where the winds chilled and their bones ached, and strength was worn along crowns and frames; the gallant, the brave, and the intrepid, lined and fervent, eager and ready, to set sail upon the plain.
 
She thought for a moment Tangere intended to slip away, that she’d walk down towards her cave and forget them instances later – the occasion passed, too fragile to be continued. The dove’s features fought against a certain layer of disheartenment, ensured her shroud, her veil, was in tact, whimsical around the eyes and her lips, chancing a glance at Roland – to see what he yearned to do, if he was done and settled upon moving ahead, rummaging down a road he hadn’t traversed in some time. Then her stare looked upon the snow, lingered upon Imogen and her waving tails, her silly, knowing snicker, the flare of memories of a time before this one, so many seasons ago, when merriment had seemed distant and strange (but cultivated all the same). There’d been the icy King Mauja, a beautiful wolf, a warrior woman with antlers, and her, gallivanting across the mountaintops, the peaks, the valleys, crammed together in an onslaught of silliness and diversion. They hadn’t had time to brood, to fixate on troubles, on the brewing onslaught waiting for them weeks later – just absolute joy and amusement. Didn’t they deserve that now?
 
Imogen chirped, nodding in her foxy, cunning way, swinging the ends of her tails into the snow, and Lena dared not laugh at the impending situation, only ensued the fondest, softest of whispers, a devilish nudge to her mouth, curling at the sides in a wide, delighted grin. “Or perhaps...,” she launched forward, and this was the only signal the kitsune required, for while Lena cast her eyes upon a large mound of snow, the vixen swung her tails in an obnoxious display, sending a round of powder towards Roland’s face. In the next whirlwind of movement, the Songbird lowered her head for the smallest of seconds, digging her horn into the lush particles and sending it upwards in a hail of frozen frenzies near Tangere’s right shoulder. She couldn’t contain her giggles any longer, splashing exuberance and effervescence in a wild, untamed display, curling and coiling into the snow, twisting and turning in several different directions, attempting to wile and will them into her game. It was levity and zest, buoyancy and joy, and she hoped, hoped, and hoped they’d play along, forgoing hesitation to join her in the revelry and mirth. 

[SNOWBALL FIGHT. :D]