Look like the innocent flower,
But be the serpent under it.

The world was cold, cruel, vicious, and unkind, wavering burdens of cumbersome abhorrence, unholy fancies sprung by capricious tides. Lena had burned in its midst, recoiled in its abyss, and been renewed, incensed, amongst the clamor, along the unwinding turmoil, in the boughs of dismal turbulence. Though she’d sunk into the anarchic whims, wrought ruin in the wake of loyalties and murderous beat of war drums, she also savored the beneficence of morality, the ethics of rapture, the emblems of reverie. She was not made to be malicious, licentious, or dipped in iniquity; she danced instead of sieged, she sang instead of assaulted, she dreamed instead of churning over in avaricious greed. Others were not the same, didn’t breathe in raptures, didn’t dream in tranquility, didn’t savor the warmth of tender benevolence, the song of virtues or the winsome arts. Instead they clung to the delusions of absconding, plundering and pillaging, ravaging the chaotic lawlessness, the seditious upheaval, the burdening onslaught, games of pawns, rooks, Kings, Queens, knights slain across a bloody floor, souls stolen from their once opulent bliss. To say her realm was absent from this mentality was inane and vacuous, the Basin harbored twisted, distorted individuals, and she would be flung from their arms too, ignored and discarded at the slightest chance. Yet, despite these righteous plights, she would not allow herself to be useless, meek or helpless in the predicaments of companions and brethren. The nymph, the sylph, the fairy and fay was useful, held a purpose, beneficial, advantageous, striking the hearts and hoards of rivals with smiles and cordiality, with ambassadorial prestige and emissary claim – and was determined to prove that to a world that likely found her incapable and hopeless. Rescue, liberation, freedom, she yearned for Aurelius and the corporal to taste deliverance again. They’d been held too long within these claws, within these clutches, within this meddlesome grasp, and she craved, yearned, longed for their emancipation.

Stepping lightly, she was airy elegance on the choking shards of the Throat’s dust, lithe and lissome grandeur in the crushing essence of power and prestige: another palace, another kingdom undaunted by the whims of pernicious glee. Respectful, refined, courteous, she ceased movement outside the perimeters of soot and dirt, dared not touch the simmering edge, the searing fringe, the bounds of puissance. She took several with her, led their staunch souls to the walls and borders of sand, of dunes, where iron and intimidation lined the arches of their ramparts and barricades, gracing the finery of its domination with the presence of her enigmatic, stalwart entity. It was her third time pursuing the blades of their convictions, first the ice sovereign’s daughter, second the doctor, and now third: her formidable friend and the spirited corporal. She drew herself into a picture of composure, unruffled, unperturbed, tracing the winding soil with strength, perseverance and diligence, the harmony of bravery and valor; diplomacy along the cracking earth, consul in the tides of bedlam. Warm, honeyed gaze stole a glance at the brethren gathered behind her (would they know how grateful she was for their kindness, for their strength, for walking into fire with her?), then the regal head twisted back to the lacquered boundaries, solidified her request with a courageous fancy, mellifluous, springing into the corridors, the parlors, the hallways, where prisoners were held, where captors guarded. “We come for Aurelius and Elizabeth.” Then, the waiting game started, the wondering, the pondering, of release, of salvation, and if there were more pawns to shift, more sacrifices before they were all carved into the earth.

[Reserved for Faelene, Larkspur, Deodat, and Throat members, such as Kri, Azzuen, Xira, etc, those that hold some regard with the prisoners. Thank you!]