Helovia has a way of digging it’s claw in and not letting go. For each, the reason is probably different, and the seal-gray mare doesn’t presume to know what keeps others here. Some, she assumes (yes fine, she does presume a bit) they simply like it. Others? Who knows. For her? Helovia has trapped her. Taken away her magic and her entire self without so much as a warning, dangling little tiny tidbits of magic in front of her nose to keep her here. Trust her, she’s tried leaving. Thinking that maybe if she just back tracked her way right out of the Threshold, her powers would come back. No such luck. She’s tried a few times, even going so far as to walk literally backward when no one was looking.

But it seems Helovia dug it’s claws in and does not intend to let go. So either she can wallow in self pity (a tactic she has tried for the better portion of her first years here), or she can deal with it and move on (a tactic she is trying now). With Birdsong finally here, the snow that has blanketed Helovia for too long finally begins to melt, leaving mud in its wake. While everything is still dead and brown and muddy, the Falls is still a rather unattractive place (though it holds some charm, the pools and rivers finally free of ice), she decides it might be a good day to visit the hideous place of beginnings.

Or a place of endings, as the case may be. You do not get one without the other.

Voices catch her attention as she wades through the trees, the sun still barely awake. Mostly, she’s wondering why she’s awake this early. But she is, and she’s here, the slop on the ground splashing on her legs and leaving blue and purple swirls on her skin, dotted with mud. She was almost looking forward to Tallsun, when at least it would be truly warm. Almost. But then it would be blistered and she’d hate that too, but there’s no pleasing her really.

The pair of mares comes into view through the trees, one of them familiar from a meeting long ago. Syrena doesn’t usually bother to remember passing acquaintances – there are many of them in Helovia, and she doesn’t care about them anyway. But she remembers this mare, because she remembers anyone of the sea. It’s what brings her to the group now more than the mare who’s actually looking for a home (though Syrena, of course, has no real idea of what’s happened in the Throat lately). But she offers a nod to both as she approaches, careful to keep her attention divided between the two, knowing this is what she’s supposed to do. Because, to be fair, the mare looking for a home might be worth her time as well.

“Sea Soul,” she greets the amber mare, “how fitting.” And then she turns her attention to the blue and black mare she does not know. “I’m Syrena, from the Hidden Falls.” Her voice is deadpan as always, though the sound of it like a song. It’s strange, the lack of emotion crashing about the lyricism in her voice. Then, broadening her attention to both, trying her best to infuse some semblance of humor into her voice, “I wouldn’t be surprised if the trees talked back.” Her effort, like always, falls flat. But it’s there, and she tried.