and the kindest of kisses break the hardest of hearts

The seraphic minstrel had melted immediately into the tender ministrations of the hot springs, sighing, humming, and closing her eyes to the tunes and the void. She forgot about desolation and bedlam. She forgot about corruption and mayhem. She forgot about monsters and brooding, twisted, corrupted fiends breathing outside their doors, and simply existed, reaching into the vast holds of the warmth and gliding on naught but comfort and relaxation. Even in the midst of her repose she maintained a certain elegance, a veneer of poise, shifting ever so slightly beneath the churning bubbles and the unmistakable heat to ensure her shoulder muscles were granted a reprieve, and eventually, lowered herself so that only her head shown above the water. Her mane fanned out and motioned with the rest of the brewing cauldron, an enchantress amongst the invisible flames, curling and coiling, and she was utterly besotted, overcome with the relief. The femme nearly questioned why she hadn’t done this sooner, but the answer always laid in something else ongoing throughout the herd – maintaining a level of sanctuary and sanctum, a shield, a port in the storm, for her fellow beasts. There was never any doubt that she’d come to their aid the moment they requested, summoned, and beckoned for her – she’d always raced into tempests, into battles, into raging maelstroms and furious, furtive expansions, an opus, an oeuvre, for the masses so they could rush back into the onslaught over and over again. But this moment seemed necessary, right, and Imogen agreed, nearly daring anyone to come take away those sweet, few instances of peace.
 
But then a quiet salutation murmured over the resplendence, a quick hello muffled by the brewing incantations and fortified guard – and the Songbird snapped out of her reverie. Her eyes quickly reopened, adjusted to the evening’s splendor, to the nocturnal hallows, swiveling her head towards the sound, mouth forming a round o in surprise, exhaling rapidly, attempting to calm her swiftly-beating heart. “Albrecht,” she answered, nodding her crown as she instantly regained her healer’s disposition – gaze instantly roaming along the visible contortions of his frame, pondering his health, his wellbeing, if he needed assistance or healing again for some unknown reason. When she couldn’t detect anything noteworthy, past the scars, the blemishes, of seasons and yesteryears before, she smiled, settled, and conjured her dulcet voice again, all radiance and sweetness despite the interruption. “How are you?” Thereafter, she made a move to leave the spring, shifting towards the outer banks, in effort to inspect, glance over, and hold a sharper look.

the songbird