The nymph took note, listened, and captured the enticing traversing of strangers, pondered over their tales, their triumphs, their tribulations and trials. If she was a master storyteller, she’d learn to weave their words and phrases into magnificent works of art, cast them into stone and marble, thread them through petals and leaves, swinging, winding lanes of primrose and lavender, compose songs and lyrics to anoint all the precious benedictions. At one time, she might have followed the winds instead of her nomadic farces, where the coursing of her stream, of her rivulet, ended at hollowed lanes and doubled-back over old mysteries, enigmas and horrors, scorching, flailing, smoldering bits of yesteryear resurfaced. She remembered breathing in the serene breeze, dancing in the sun’s rays, bursting into the runes of the Threshold, meeting knights and goddesses and divine, virtuous plumes, before the earth churned and turned, made her alter, change, into the composed whimsy of some reserved creature. But her voice echoed over the repose, over the atmosphere, over the nefarious armaments haunting her memories, chiming in carillon tones, a bell and a hymn. “It sounds delightful, Lebi.” Lena, and Imogen alike, enjoyed the crooning narrator, with her steps escalating amongst the brook, adding details, characters, and enlightenment to an epic of Gypsy affairs. Only after the Foothills stag had extended his invitation did the sylph become rendered back into the form of recruiting, too elated and diverted by the fanciful foibles of another. Imogen chirped, perhaps content that her companion had finally managed to distract herself from the latest, scarring events, and Lena followed with her own lush convictions, warm, tender sentiments pulsing, pervading, in a singsong conjecture, composition and opus. “It would be my pleasure to offer you a home within the Aurora Basin. We offer many different resources and shelter, including beautiful peaks, valleys, caves and a lake that never freezes.” A smile followed, bright, jubilant, radiant, the aching, yearning, enchanting desire to help restore and rejuvenate her icy land culminating and combining into an earnest, silent plea for others to follow her, to consider the might, the beauty, of a glacial empire, of a frosty kingdom.

The sylph tried not to convey the rancorous flush of disappointment as the mare’s vocals flowed like water, breathy, heady, lilting and haunting, another traveler poised to wander the earth until they’d found their beloved, destined place, not ready to settle, not eager to choose. How long had it been since she’d led another into the glacial palisade, renewed the tiny snippets and pieces of the frosty valley, of the chilling expanse, of the glittering fragments and cordial icicles, rime and snow dancing on lashes and embracing the glamor, the opulence, the splendor of rebirth? Each step she took was seemingly sullied, ineffectual, worthless, and the biting regret fueled the latent chambers of failure and turbulence, storms instead of flowers, melancholy instead of wholesome, lively petals. Fortitude remained, clear, bright, lively, but the inward turmoil bubbled, frothed and brewed, brimmed until she felt full of all the collapses, defeats and floundering threads and strands; an eternal timepiece whittling away at whatever triumphs and conquests they’d once glimmered from behind Siberian veils. However, the stranger, Lebi, was not to blame, and the singsong nymph would never muster such sentiments – she understood the need, the yearning, the craving for unknown compositions and enchantments, to wander amongst the worlds and discover the avenues of one’s own path, traversing down taut, stretched chords, meandering amongst wildflowers, dreaming of yesteryears and futures streamlined with recherché, waltzing and rose labyrinths. The harmonic, tender tunes of her candor, pleasantries, of her divine patience, of the christened, anointed harmony joined her vocals and pervaded with honey, with ambrosia, to ensure that despite her own vexations, the fellow femme was not muddled into the pressing ailments. “I wish you well on your explorations.” Where would she go next? Which road would she take, ambling, leaping, toiling amongst the din, the wonder, the enigmas?

But Lebi craved more knowledge, and selfless, soft, dulcet Lena captured each trace of their vocals, the Foothills stag describing with detailed information (and she had to ponder; how had he acquired such bearings, for even she, elegantly tracing boundaries, damning, consecrating, severing, enchanting, had never grasped all these notes?), leaving her little space to convey her own wisdom until the poise of the Basin rasped along his tones, and she felt the urge, the necessity, to delve into the thorns and barbs of assumptions, presumptions and premises. The Aurora was always the first to be condemned by the lips, lies and tongues of strangers, through ignorance, hypocrisy or mendacity, and gently, fiercely, considerate and compassionate, the revolution of her warmth glided through the halls. “I fear I must correct you – lately, the Basin has acquired other creatures. The latest has been a Centaur, I believe.” She recalled the interesting beast at their recent herd meeting, all hands, torso, and finally, equine frame, fascinating and intriguing, though she hadn’t had the time to gain any more knowledge of his kind (he hadn’t appeared content with all the stares anyway). But she’d been pleased, elated, enlightened, at the notion that their world was revolving into deeper threads and particles, shards and remnants of hate, of malice, faltering into the shadows, to restore, to revive. Perhaps this Solace could take the awareness with him, the ability and notion that the heresy, the hedonistic scrawls and writings, the notations and quandaries, bounding upon notes of her lands were not always true. Layered and lacquered back into silence, she only spoke once more after he mentioned bonds, companions and beloved beings, staring and smiling upon Imogen as the ivory fox danced amongst long blades. “Some are capable of forging connections with other beasts, through luck, through circumstance, through love and devotion.” Her convictions emboldened her, sent a benevolent, sincere stare across the void to the newcomer, grinned and bore the weight of all of her woes, tragedies and deceits, painted the canvas of commitment, allegiance and dedication. “You become a part of one another, incapable of existing without the other.” You spill blood for them, she remembered, in the mist, in the fog, where she rendered violence and villainy against a gilded flier, where the hymns faded and the noxious, nefarious plumes reared their satanic faces. But without the white kit, she too would have been lost to the ire and fear of damnation.