Purpose and ambition fueled the Songbird’s essence across the sunlit morning. She only spent a few minutes, a few moments, basking in the glow of warmth from her cave’s aperture, eyes closed, breathing rhythmic, serenaded by the quiet, dulcet glimmer of the day. She imagined the finer sorts of dreams behind her eyes, a world drenched in greenery, in bright, vivid colors and hues, brilliant and incandescent, streaks of lavender, shades of indigo, beautiful touches of cool, sea-drenched blue, and smiled when she seemed to reawaken again, greeting the early hours, the wondrous dawn, with a bow, with a shake, with a promise tucked along her tongue. Then she wandered forward, out in the world, pressing her wild, intrepid dance into the pathways, Imogen following, a flash of white tails and silhouettes.
 
They embarked towards the greenhouse first, ducking beneath the glassy veneer, exploring the vast hold and array of plants. She took count and measure of herbs already used, which seemed depleted, which seemed barely utilized at all, cataloguing a mental image of those rooted and settled, those needing to be plucked, daintily snagging at a few leaflets and fronds overgrown and wavering out of their designated form. Her mind whirled through the herd members, pondering over their needs, their necessities, who ached, who pained, who’d sought entirely too much influence into psychedelics (tried not to sigh at the last thought), muttered and murmured her notions towards the ivory kitsune at her feet. “Perhaps some more arnica and chamomile,” Lena crooned, thinking of Albrecht’s creaking joint and aching stomach, huffing only a little, pushing long forelock out of her face with a whimsical flush of breath and amusement. Imogen chirped, a beckoning motion of teases and chirrups, and the Mender rolled her eyes at the silent mockery, bending down to sweep her maw across the tip of the fox’s skull, singing and humming all the while.
 
Once they departed, they instantly roamed towards the borders, where some of the yellow plants had been sprouting, blossoming beneath the warmth of Birdsong, then flourishing as the rains settled amidst Tallsun. They spent several minutes gathering, plucking at a few of the chosen strands, Imogen roaming along and gathering them in a bundle within her jaws. The pair would’ve likely headed directly back to the greenhouse with their wares, had Lena not heard voices ahead, roaming beneath the sentinels’ empty gazes. Curiosity got the better of her, always intrigued, always interested, recognizing the familiar warmth of Tiamat (and wondering how she was getting along in her duties, if she required assistance at some point), the strange, unknown, foreign wavering of replies. She nodded towards her companion, and they both followed the pathway, lingering beneath the refinement of the sun, casting the holy rite of her hallelujahs, of her amiability, as they made their appearance known, effervescent and reverent. “Hello!” She called in sing song, smile dipped in liberation and deliverance, bobbing her head towards Tiamat and the painted, winged mare. “I’m Lena, one of the Time Menders. Is there any way I could help you today?” She glanced to both again, proffering her services to either – and Imogen sat at her stilled hooves again, mouth full of herbs.