Pleasantries warmed the cooler air, caused them to sing, to hum, to bolster the spirits as they scrambled, rampant, down the course of dished cheeks and wholesome hearts. The coldness, the stark, desolate chill, was another sanctuary, a reminder of home, of weeks and months spent amongst brethren, warding off the sting of defeat, brandishing smiles when they were given a segment, a piece, of forgiveness in the windswept arms of the Aurora and her Basin. Newcomers are not given the story of their sacrifice, of their demise, of remnants of pride scattered to destroyed eaves, of their torrents and tumults, of their victories and subsequent ruins. Instead, they were treated to the clamor of the veiled air, sweet and nurturing, nipping and biting, embraced by the mountainside, the valleys, the lakes and frozen fixtures of opulence, of grandeur. Lena didn’t spill any of the tale from her lips, did not pour the rancor, the bitterness, of the legend into the parade, and merely settled into the rapture of the cordial, amicable day, how lucky she, and everyone else, were to be residing in a world they could cherish, restore, and revitalize once more. Home, a wonderful chord of jubilation, glee and hope, fostered into silken threads of phoenix ashes, rising, reborn, persevering, strong, mighty and glorious. Perhaps Tiamat, daughter of rain and clouds, would find the mystery, the ambience, the enigmatic swing of each lyrical hum to be a wholesome push into divinity and the sublime, to encompass and cherish the dominion of their newfound distinction, bolster the prestige, heighten the resplendence and majesty of the kingdom they all shared. Gentled, mellifluous and intrigued, the nymph, sylph, fey and fairy, cast her eyes upon her elemental counterpart and smiled again, the steady, everlasting grin. If Tiamat was the ocean, could she be the song of the sky? If Tiamat was a mermaid, could she be a bird? Could they hum together in the beat, in the twist, of coming days? A hymn bubbled in her throat, a murmuring, divine note that enlightened the horizon, blanketing the soothing sounds of wind and day. “You’re welcome.” She drank in an interlude, watched the world of rime, ice and caverns, of mysteries never to be found, of secrets never to be heard, offered her vocals again in a serenade of well-wishes, enthusiasm and intrigue. “Would you like a tour?”

Another is fetched from the reign of the Orangemoon, a familiar individual, who, despite the imminent distinction of his presaged essence, she still kindled a smile for. She lowered her head in a regal gesture to the Time Mender, one whose horn was made of glass but not his body, not his heart, not his soul, bending it gracefully towards her chest, then regaining her former posture thereafter. She studied him kindly, a graceful nuance fluttering in the background, like sentiments of an old friend lost to the entities of space and time. He’d been a foundation of the Edge, and now only cemented the notion further along the Basin, winding his magic and poison into the air, the fabric, the tapestries and shadows. He was precious to them, a trusted ally, a formidable Doctor, encased in livelihood, in legend, and in price. She’d been one of the few to fetch him from the depths of sand and soot after his abduction, when their world had already been crushed and snatched. Perhaps this was why he bestowed her an uncommon grin, and she took it as a token of kinship, allowed hers to grow wider. Her voice ignited again, waltzing, lilting, a soothing aria that whispered over the ages of a kingdom lost to them. “D’Artagnan.” The songbird became silent then, allowed the queries to be answered to whom they were directed upon, and instead watched tiny Imogen crouch and float amongst the other companion. The kitsune, attempting to be crafty, lowered her frame amongst the reverie of long grasses, but forgot the twitching ivory tails, bending and swaying in amusing mimicry.