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

She’d been struck down before, disarmed and left forlorn amongst the eternal decadence of nothingness, where realms splintered into shards of anguish, misery and desolation. She’d been barbed before, riddled with armaments of intrinsic, engrained treachery, duplicity, scarred by their nettles, scorched by their guile. She’d been left to dwindle before, the captive songbird in the lost splendor, grandeur, never allowed to chirp her favorite sonnets. The arts of such morose conjectures and sentiments had allowed a blossom to bloom in the entity of torment, heartache and despair, rustling and growing a most tender floret amongst a carnivorous siege, smiling in the threatening gloom, grinning in the presaged cruelty, and laughing in the machinated mayhem. Lena, nymph, sylph and fay, refused to be altered here by the course of wit and words, calculations brought forth long before her and her brethren entered the gritty sands. She persevered, like so many times prior, the enchanting, stalwart mist along the eternal abyss of suffering and salvation. She knew of strength, of undulating muscles and coiled, rippling sinew, of staunch leadership that crushed and embroiled each and every day, of pride and esteem, of dignity and honor, of what she lacked and what she contained within her own steadfast, reliable bounty. The General’s silence and Kri’s phrases didn’t hasten her departure, didn’t scrape her clean of any bravery, didn’t mold her valor into miniscule threads and pluck them away into the burning sky. It only prompted her further, prospered and desired, incensed the warm glow of her luminescent, regal fixture, radiant rapture thrown from the heavens. Determination piqued, awakened, the noble twist of her features stared into their eyes and flickered dedication, endurance and tenacity – if they thought to make her flee, to drive her away, to make her feel inferior and useless, they had not succeeded. Serene, tranquil, relaxed in the spires of tension and the minarets of hostility, she weaved and trilled the melodic quality to her voice again, sweet and ambrosial in the faces of looming risk. “Your barrages came well before our own and continue until this day. Strategy for warfare or not, they hold poignant memories. They are not irrelevant, but bear a hostile history.”

She paused, thinking of the companions behind her, beside her, forced and bound by the contract of kingdoms and regimes. They all followed orders, creeds set amongst the worlds and leaders – the same as the Dragon’s Throat members. Were they all that different? Were they really so altered? Didn’t the sand try to conquer? Didn’t the aurora try to claim victory? Didn’t these distorted empires run the same clamors, the same dins, to restore, renew, and grasp glory? “I do not place blame on either herd. We have been at odds for many seasons. What you see as vengeance, my herd sees as justice, and vice versa. It shall be a vicious circle.” Her honeyed gaze glanced from warrior to warrior, and continued in the same stead, the beguiling, bewitching dulcet tones of harmony and rapture. “However, I have no desire to see these conflicts go on any longer. I’m tired of losing my brethren, and you are weary of the same.” For, when would it all end? The Throat hastened to show their victimization as well, when each and every party remained guilty, and some individuals, not amongst the wicked frays, were torn, absconded and stolen from their realms. Why do we punish the undeserving? Why do we sell our souls for reverence? Why do we raise the rancor of so many bitter foes? Lena took one deep breath, cast her eyes upon the surroundings of dunes and dust, and brought the ardor of daring to the wiles of her aria. Her companions would likely disagree with these sentiments, but it would not be the first, nor the last time, she’d be altered from their ideals. She’d come with a purpose, and she’d kindle gestures unheard of in order to restore semblance of order to her home. “I can propose a discussion with our Lady Psyche – an armistice of sorts. You may come to the Basin peacefully with your escort,” She looked to the General, tossed her head towards his countenance, smiled when the heartfelt fancies of her phrase allowed her to continue, “and lay out the foundations of a truce. If the necessary conditions are met, you shall return those you hold prisoner.”