They continued to contort in the secretive hold, nestled in barbs, thorns and roses of the Threshold, lingering in the listless range of hidden, concealed armaments. A play, a work of art, a stage of serenity, well wishes and grandeur, uncovering and unraveling naught but the trivial grins, the silly rhapsodies, the safe, guarded sieges of whimsy. She understood it all because that was how she lived, mastering frivolities, molding fanciful moments, offering her heart, soul and compassion to the living statues of the Basin. So when Mauja said nothing, so when Blue Duck merely smiled, so when the world encased itself in shadow, in mystery, in enigmatic twists and turns, she bore all of its paradoxes and riddles, never asked, never pried, allowed them wash over the enamel of carefully wrought layers. She truly had no idea, no sentiment, of what they’d gone through, what their lives were encased within, where and what they sought along the perilous journeys they carved into the earth, and so she graced the world with her presence, her refinement, her elegance, her tenderness and beneficence to creatures that roamed the kingdoms searching for salvation, for tranquility, for iniquity. Sometimes it was ignored, washed away by the rain, by smug brows and chiseled nonchalance, and other snippets of time found it forgotten, discarded and left to rot, wither, decay by the bombardments of the elements. Perhaps, in this juncture, it was surveyed and embellished, her altruism, her humanity, her morality, taken like a gift from one creature to another until they were all veiled, sanctuaries in the turbulent, rancorous plunge from one life to the next.

Her honeyed stare flickered from icy sovereign to waterfowl beast, then to the ground, where the snow collected, solid, stoic, unflinching in the relentless haze of winter. For now, instead of beautiful, instead of a cold reverie, it was harsh and merciless, driving at the sweat, the steam, collecting across Blue Duck’s frame. Regardless of his stature, of his strength, the culmination of loss and lethargy would doom him to an early grave, and even her songs, her warbles, her requiems and laments could not cease the scythe of death. Her eyes failed to lose their serious edge, but still coiled, still rhapsodized the harmonious lilt of her soft rapture, encouraging the proposed walk and waltz with poised, polite delicacy. She and Imogen began their movement, urging motions from the other creatures gathered in their midst; the kitsune swindled and swerved between various legs, a chirp and a twirl ushered towards the cerulean steed, encouragement founded and pushed, bestowed and guided. Within their fluid movements, her simple, graceful dance, she brought forth the answer to Blue Duck’s query, melodious, fluid, lithe and limber, a march and spell of seraphic glee. “To the Aurora Basin, if you wish.” She glanced behind her, a twinkle settled in her gaze towards the newcomer steed, a wink gestured towards her snowy monarch – he wouldn’t mind her waxing poetic on a world carved by their heartache, their travesties, their hardships, and finally, their victories. “Full of peaks and valleys, caves, wonder, beauty, and some elements of danger.” She paused in her speech, a purposeful cease of hum and hymn, her stare glancing elsewhere, beyond the copse and shade, to the mountains buried in peril and mystique, obscurity and opulence. A laugh echoed from her vocals, pulsed and pervaded the scenery, a coaxing, enticing allure brandished from her lips. “Do you long for a challenge, Blue Duck?”