Her dreams were restless, persistent, and unwinding – a message from another world, another time, another place, capturing her name on its wintry lips Leeeeena, neither dark nor light, and she grimaced against the onslaught. For a few moments she fought the summoning entirely, not waking, forcefully shielding her eyes from the bright light beyond, morning dew and spring vestiges, shirking its power to listen to anything else. But it was in the wind, in the trees, in the air, shuffling and courting, murmuring and screaming and shouting and hissing all around her, until she was pulled almost entirely upright, an invisible, intangible hold underneath her chin, a billowing art of beckons and siren calls stroking her ears. The Songbird’s eyes opened, wide, but stalwart and valorous, believing it to be naught more than a mirage, a ghost, a phantom, wandering along the great plains, dancing in eerie, merry delight, intending to pull her into damnation and oblivion.
 
Imogen shook her head though, too wise, too knowing, pacing outside the cave’s aperture, into the brilliant rays of sunlight, chirping glorious tunes between their graces. Even if she couldn’t hear the noise, the refrain, the constant chants, she was still a part of the seraph, a portion of her wondrous soul. It’s okay! She waved her tails, she arched her cunning brows, and she pranced into the void, drawn by the clarity, the tenacious endeavors – so Lena did too, in a trance, entrenched in the veritable warren and labyrinths.
 
They left the safety of the mountains, told not a single soul of their sojourn. The mender was spellbound, the kitsune was ecstatic, and the world seemed to shift into nothing more than columns of wintry white again – she wouldn’t have recognized the Blood Falls with its frozen pillar, with its dazzling arrays of powder and ice. All the while, the wind kept calling, insisting, tugging her forward into the enigmatic beyond, and she couldn’t resist, entirely enticed, tempted, besotted into the grandeur of opulence and intrigue, limbs moving of their own accord, muscles stretched into longer movements and cascades, a minuet, a cavalcade, a series of motions riddled with song.
 
Then her eyes lingered upon the stranger in the midst, standing right before her with naught but ivory, a fairy, a fey – like one of her own, cast into chilling elements (perhaps her’s, a witch sent from caverns of rime and avalanches). Lena didn’t know what to do, couldn’t fathom why she’d been brought here, why she’d been serenaded by the sharp wails of the breeze or the diligence of the snowy tides, so when her mouth opened, when her breath loomed, when her voice ignited, it was in an intrigued bounty of melody and harmony, sent in a lilting strain towards the whimsical essence. “Did you have need of me?” She whispered too, hesitant to destroy the atmosphere, believing there’d been a mistake, gaze settling on other portions of the realm, looking for more strangers, more rightful beasts to come out of the haunted woodwork.