The world never ceased in its quest for knowledge, and it scavenged the surroundings for the bits and pieces left to salvage, bait and restore; Lena listened, an open ear, absorbing the opinions of the child, seemingly embracing the notions of newfound paradigms, and then towards the Lady as she wove mythos from her lips. It was the latter that trickled a strange, chilling rush of trepidation, apprehension, and unease along her columns, down the base of her spine, across her mind, warning bellows, haunting bells, poignant strikes of menacing chords (bitter, rancorous reminders of shades and shadows, hiding beneath boughs, struggling to obscure the contempt from her juvenile gaze). Sprung from the augured sentiments of the unholy, of the righteous, of the wicked, scarring, maiming, brutal cataclysms marking end of days and irreverent maelstroms, reaching for the heavens and ripping them to shreds. The sylph stared towards the GildedBlade, a noble, angelic head suddenly confounded and overwhelmed by the inanity, the specious runes, the deceptions, gleaming and bright against the sky, illuminating abhorrence and pride instead of valor. Not naïve, Lena had been aware of their standings amongst other herds, for curses, for maledictions, for actions she’d never viewed, seen or orchestrated, but no one had spoke of these stories to her before, varnished and brilliant, as if they reigned over the land. Did everyone think of the world in such a way (surely not kind Faelene, incandescent Arah), brandished by horns and horns alone, dominating, supreme, glorious above all others, smiting the wicked doldrums of other species? Didn’t the opposing forces deserve a right to live in harmony? How could a sword rule over the entire world, with just the gleam of a rapier, just the hint of a serrated edge? Weren’t they all equal in some measure, vicious and unwinding, unraveling and unwinding, reposed and collected, composed? As if she’d been struck by a heavy blow, the femme’s eyes widened, shocked, dismayed, disappointed all at once, combined into a shell of bewilderment, disconcerted, serenity dimmed by the toxic decadence spewed into their parlor. Queries formed and brewed, fermenting anarchy, throughout her cranium, until she became overwhelmed by the cataclysm sliced across her fantasies. Had everything they’d ever committed been for this sickening supremacy? Did they murder in the shadows, claiming atrocities for power, animosity for antiquity? Imogen brandished a reaction against her limbs, snarling out of fear for her companion, for the confusion, the frustrations, rankling, spiraling, curling along her body.

Because she didn’t believe the tale, the narrative, the spinning web of legends and parables, wished to hear no more, she spoke a quiet thread of apology, sought to retreat from the cumbersome burden of lies, of deceit, of malice, of convictions sowed in blood and agony. “I’m sorry. I fear I don’t hold the same views.” The nurse attempted the slimmest of smiles, buried beneath the shambles of conversation and essence of sinister sagas, and began to slowly back away, into the light, into the day, instead of the infernal shades piecing together into derisive scores; an illusion snapped. A current of syllables rushed forth, then the nymph strived to disappear. “A pleasure to see you both.” Partially, if only due to the knowledge now sequestered deep into her soul, disenchantment tangled into the treachery of the mountains.