Newcomers were often treated to a world of mysteries, and Lena didn’t have the heart to tell them that they’d never uncover all the secrets, all the furtive, specious layers and runes amidst the lacquered quandaries, the enameled enigmas aligned and maligned to copses, to glades, to lakes, rivers and streams. Curiosity would build, would brim, would brew until there was naught to do become the enlightened, twist and turn bodies into inquisitive canvases, studying the lay of the earth before them as they crossed over primrose paths, worn trails leading to broken hymns, altered routes presaging serenity. Whatever road they traversed and traveled, nomads, gypsies, foreign, strange souls embarking on life-changing quests, they’d find themselves changed, shaped and sharpened to the grasp and grip they either yearned for, or repelled. The sylph examined the other femme, watched and witnessed through her warm amber gaze, the wide-eyed wonder at Imogen’s presence, the childish glee of her warbling existence, of the warm greeting she’s been bestowed by either species. The kitsune gave her own steady reply in turn, a tender, mellifluous chirrup, a practiced bow copied from her fey companion. The fae’s heralding - Wolf - a powerful name for a creature, noble, regal, a wild, ruffian flare that encompassed so many attributes that Lena’s spirit of inquiry couldn’t be oppressed, tilting her head to fondly regard an ethereal figure given formality of dominating, fierce fire. How did she acquire her calling? Had she been born strong and savage, quick and swift, blossoming in a fair, welcoming family, sharing the wealth of her knowledge, the candor of her spirit? Did she bloom in the shadows, courting intelligence, cunning, willful and dominating? Did she nest in the sunlight, unafraid, undaunted, by the wake of the world before her? She spoke again, her words a tender trace, trance, on the wind, longing for a touch of the unknown. Yet, Lena doesn’t know what she hasn’t seen, what she hasn’t touched, what she hasn’t tasted, which incantations she hasn’t hummed beneath her breath, what worlds she hasn’t graced, which dangers she hasn’t intertwined within her heart. So, quietly, drifting on a song, on a harp, on a laurel, the nymph spoke again, offering a lifeline if given the right lane to voyage, to odyssey. “What do you wish to see?”