The conversation quickly wrapped and warped down pathways Lena commonly recoiled from; wars, invasions, defenses and abductions that mired, entangled, morassed them into states of upheaval, bedlam and chaos. She’d sauntered down the wayward barbs and into patches of thorns, she’d sunk into insurrection and villainy, violence and entropy, and held no desires to do over and over again. The child was almost unnerving, for one so lacquered by youth, she spoke in arduous tones, laid claim to pawns and rulers, monarchs and hostages, puppets and instruments of war, where to sever a dragon so that it would be the most severe. Why did a babe, a youth, know of such treachery, of such dangers and hostilities, of antipathy and acrimony, when all their precious tenderness, all their innocence, should have remained unsullied, untouched? Instead, it seemed to have been whittled into unearthly convictions and scorned into zealous, infidel seditions, allegiance to bedlam instead of warm pursuits or loving embraces. Quietly, the ambrosial healer attempted to lay out her own wisdom, the musing, the advice, the experience of her short years amongst the throng, the din, of their might, dominion, and the weight of so many circumstances. Gentle, lenient, a singsong of sage qualities, a shaking, shuddering of breath overtaken into calming, composed plumes, leaving the world unaware of how much their tactics, their trials, had effected her. “Taking anything precious would cause strife, either leader, child or friend.” Should they have gestured to a scion’s worth, a mother’s love tendered into value? Should they have left babes and their mother to rot in a cell? Did this youth carved from arachnids and webs want to be chained into oubliettes, forgotten, forlorn, despondent, shrieking for absolution, unheard and abandoned? A slight frown molded across her lips and down her brow, Imogen scuttled back in between her legs, and she attempted to rekindle the smile, the grin, that had brightened her features in prior conversations. It took a few moments, a quelling, a brewing, of quiet certitude, to regain what had been lost, trying to fashion, compose, sculpt, reason towards a filly who may not have seen anything more than the world she’d described; monarchs peeling away marionettes, dragons grasping in avaricious glee. Lena never gave higher value to any creature – all of them endeavored in venues of their own accord, their own gifts, their own granted artifices and delights, prowess and precision. “Every beast has their own power. None should be underestimated.”