The chill ruffled through her mane, her tail, her fine lacing of sienna and honey, and the alluring, beckoning twist of its summons provoked, stirred, and incensed her and the ivory fox into movement. They became minstrels of motion, coasting over the earth on the eve of another bite into Frostfall’s disciples; turning into the grandeur of wind and speculation, because she’d done it so many times before – it was habitual, it was perennial, it was satin days and cold, desolate evenings, and daunting as they might be, the Songbird knew they’d endure it all again.
Their soft, dulcet dance steps swiveled upon another scene, and from her distance amidst the pine, the fir, the rustling of nymphs, dryads, and sprites, she could only spy a small gathering. She glanced, stared, against the outcrops for a while, pondering over whether to join or to fall away to wild abandon again, when Imogen purred, chirped, extended her senses into the foray. Tiamat! she proclaimed, eager and bright, as if the mere notion of the blue mare’s presence (and likely that of the whale, which the wily kitsune thought was incredibly curious-looking) would send Lena into the throng. She was right, of course, because no sooner had the sentiments been bestowed, did the Mender curl and coil away from heathens and autumn shadows, extending her stride, her limbs, into the grandeur of speculation.
“Good day!” She called as she neared, paying close heed to relishing the others’ nestled and tucked within (some staring, peering, into a carefully-woven basket), extending her salutations and greetings towards those she recognized – Wessex, Tiamat, and Tangere – and to the unknown stag as well. Imogen couldn’t help herself, bent into more inquisition, parading over and peering over the edge of fronds, settling her gaze on the contents. “What have we here?” The Songbird trilled, a glorious aria, brow arched, smile radiant, intrigued all the more.
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