Seasons to cycles, déjà vu in constant, perennial waves; like the flowers and petals upon nurtured blossoms, heady from crisp autumns and cumbersome winters, arriving again and again, a familiar scent returned to her nares. A ghostly, intertwining specter, roaming and brimming, pervading and infusing the woods she occupied, composing the junctures of curiosity, tenderness and warmth once more. A thousand queries bobbed within her mind, permeating through the benevolence, through the compassion, through the distortions of wavering elements, all the same, never voiced and given note, rote, but still apparent, riddled and painted across her nymph contortions. Where had he been? What stories did he hold? What brought him to leave the icy walls (was there something enticing, pulling, alluring and beguiling his soldiers’ soul)? Was he well? Was there something she could do for him, another lilting bundle of sonnets, another lyrical reverie and rapture to entangle and assuage the precarious weight upon his shoulders? For a few moments, she considered the length of her motion, the edges and fringes of her movements – to stay, to go, to chase him down into the whirlwind of spectral dances again; if he was a mirage, a hallucination, destined to smite and strike her. Was he another delusion conjured from her loneliness? Or was it another momentous occasion to rejoice, stoke ebullience instead of sorrow? Was he like Faelene, dragged from the mountains, sand, dunes and shore, to come back to them? Imogen chirped amidst all of the inquiries and doubts, swarmed through her head with a steady hand, an ivory veil, a strong, valorous curtain. Follow! Wind around the trail, billow into the courtyard again, hum and hymn, be the songbird, the swallow, the finch, the nightingale for the wayfaring warrior. Steadfast, triumphant, persistent, the two creatures bounded deep into the lanes, drifted through copse and glade, waltzed a fine minuet, a finessed bolero, across hand-brushed leaves and chilling air, fairies in the haze of the unknown. Taffeta webs and harpsichord dreams, entangled and emboldened by the rush of a companion’s return. They streamlined onward, extinguishing the distance, the gap, between painted blackguard and whimsical rhapsody, until his form came into view, and she slowed, hesitant to bombard him with the resurgence of her exuberance. Instead, sylph and fox angled themselves along the wind, inclined and undaunted, springing a few yards away from his side, a bountiful melody uncurling from her mouth. “Welcome back!”

déodat,
It didn’t take long for others to arrive. Two came, but his attention immediately drifted to one of the few he had missed since his departure. For a moment he wondered if there would be any anger from his friend after he yet again abandoned her. Was abandoned the right word? It wasn’t as if she was alone and had no one else. There were the other members of the Basin that would’ve been here for her. When she spoke, the words were simple, but they were kind. The Blood Prince hadn’t realized a smile had broken the frown that had been sculpted onto his features from the years of war, bloodshed, and hardship. It was good to see that his friend was alright. Then another voice spoke, he turned his head, the smile faltering from his lips a bit. At the sight of a stranger it was tempting to fall back into his hardened expression.

“Thank you.” He said to the filly first, but then his attention turned back to Lena. What should he say to the mare? Pride kept him from apologizing, and he also saw no point in it. There weren’t enough apologies in the world that could make up for his sudden absences. There was no making up for lost time. There was only the present moment and the repercussions of his own choices. In this case, his absence had led to months of time spent in solitude and now seeing his friend he was beginning to regret his decision. “It’s good to see you again Lena, and I hope you have been faring well. How has life been treating you?”

Then he remembered the presence of the filly. Maybe he should at least introduce himself, though manners were the last thing on his mind at that moment. “I’m Déodat by the way.” He said glancing over at the filly, to show that she hadn’t been forgotten. “Has there been any change within the Basin since I left?” There was genuine curiosity in his tone, but nothing showed up on his face, it had shifted back to it’s hardened expression. Hopefully nothing too dramatic had happened within his time away, he didn’t get his hopes high for anything. There was an endless amount of things that could be different and he was already preparing himself for what differences lay in wait for him in his cold north home.


[gah, I promise these will get better eventually >,<]
"Speech speech speech"

Adrift in the elation, euphoria, of another companion found again, like the whispers, the croons, the delight of softened petals or newly, ripened snow, bolstered, shuffled, her away from any frustrations, any vexations, she may have conjured in the darkening days of past, uncoiling seasons. The ancient ruin of his smile, as if he was still unsure of how to wear one, that it remained ill-fitting instead of the resolute juncture she saw across his lips, elongated her own angles and mouth, a widening smile, a chime of bells, a hum, a hymn, of delight and regard. If she were to compose more songs to fasten this instant into polished lacquer or sweet, honeyed enamel, it would kindle ambrosia and fuel further ditties and arias, strains and ballads, to the well-wishes, the captivation, the enchantment, of long-lost friends. The warm, brilliant, tender candor of her eyes sought to provide answers to unspoken riddles (was he hurt, maimed, spoiled or blighted by his latest traversing days, ambling or shuffling with a limp, marked and blemished by the dangers, the perils, of his measured, calculated feuds?), to examine and investigate with her keen, healer’s gaze – but one more pervaded the land, and her scrutiny only landed upon his left side before falling away to address the spotted dame. Recognition dawned along the face and features of the fellow femme, amidst a throng during herd gatherings, a curious, tilted head and the gentle swell of a grin – Lena’s remained, unabashed, poised, strong, enduring and genuine. Dulcet, harmonious, mellifluous and incandescent, she strived and pursued the rich, lyrical presence of her tunes, floating and pleasant, seeking to convene more and more friends amongst her brethren. “Greetings, I’m Lena. Who are you and your lovely companion?” She tipped and dipped her own head in swaying intrigue, and Imogen countered the polite measure with a sway of her tails, a chirp towards the other bonded, antlered and intriguing on many other levels.

But then the soldier, the warrior, found his own queries marked for the sylph, and she dragged her attention away from the deer-like creature and back upon the hold of Deodat. How has life been treating you? A question loaded with more answers then she could bear to muster – to what end did she pursue the burden of response? The nymph had no inclination to wander down the primrose paths she’d courted already, violent, askew regions that left her heart far more burdened than the simple smile suggested, that mustered and coiled, stabbed and perforated in the once glorious portions and partitions of her heart. Could she regard her shame again, leave it mustered and open, festering and withering, decaying and spreading across the chords and chains of her ethereal soul, once painted, once stroked and caressed and brushed with the glory, the perseverance, of a gentle, stalwart sprite? Would she be forced to lie, to swindle and deceive her way out of the darkening chambers, or merely lay amongst specious corridors, hope he didn’t seek to discover all the shameful layers of her broken hallelujahs? Her stare pinpointed to the rime floor for a few instances, contemplating how to deliver her response, until it’d been packaged, neat and tidy, embellished with bows and lace, in another saccharine grin and soothing voice. “I am well. How are you faring?” In truth, she wanted to know how he’d been weathering the world outside their icicle doors and glacial walls, if he missed the frozen terrain and the high, lofting peaks, the frosty valleys and chilling winds, the wild, vast dominion and domain. But his other question ensnared her attentions back towards the wounds left upon her moralities, and she managed to conquer the hold in her throat with ambience, light and airy, begging him not to implore further, into the regions she’d touched and scalded. “We held invasions upon the Edge and Throat while you were gone – they had stolen portions of D’art’s family and threatened for more – but both were unsuccessful.” Though she’d kindled her own triumph, it had been meaningless, arduous and far from glorious; the feelings and sentiments rendered along the heat and rancors of violence were disturbing phantoms slithering and crawling amongst her mind. A suitable pause, a hastening of breath, a shoving of demons below the surface, was immersed into the fray before she caught more intrigues, distracted with information. “We’ve also had a change of leads, Deimos as Lord and Illynx as Lady.” Her gaze drifted back to the painted scholar, allowing her to answer any portions left undiscovered, and hoping the conversation didn’t stray over any more failures, any more nuances of foundering, defeated, collapsed frailties.

In a flurry of moments, swift, tipping scales, beats of zealous, arduous fire, she swayed from delight, jubilation, and bliss, to a saddening mixture of repose, regret, and remorse. Frost Fyre’s introduction, her lovely companion’s calling, arrived before the burn of abashed confusion rendered itself across the sylph’s features, for as she parted her jaws to extend the salutations, the delight of meeting the other creatures collected within the Basin, the spotted filly turned away, sought to depart. A crushing stream of guilt and contrition flooded along her cheeks, puncturing her grin into a lamentable frown, a hint, a display, of her chastened heartstrings. Had she erred somehow, expressed herself too much, gave over an immense, intense glee, offending the femme to withdrawal and deviations? And if so, how could she amend the wicked arch of her miscalculations and mistakes? Deodat’s arrival back into their icy halls should have awarded and courted many well wishes, celebrated, conveyed with hope and joy, not hastening further divergences. Struggling to decipher an answer, her song captured a lamentable air, strife and requiems building a wild crescendo of desperation, drifting towards the fleeting frame, ardent, hopeful. “Oh, you don’t need to leave! Please stay!” But the plea seemingly fell upon deaf ears and stale shadows, hastening towards a wall, a void, of nothingness, a disappearing figure into the threshold of frost and rime.

The frown failed to disappear, and apologies hung through the chilling air, seized from each warm puff of air billowing from her mouth. Eyes became a downcast sentiment, Imogen a grumbling sector nuzzling between fairy hooves, while the nymph attempted to piece together Deodat’s words, distracted and fixated on the cause of her oversights and fallacies. She attempted to maintain a state of composure thereafter, postured one saddening sigh before lifting and tilting her tiara back towards the painted warrior, managing to curl one lip upwards at the notion that he was fair, that she need not extend another song to heal him from incriminating wounds, that he’d somehow remained safe on his wayfaring journeys. At the dominating ferocity entangled within his voice, however, upon learning of the prior abductions, she hastened a steady, valorous answer, attempting to assuage and soothe the ruffled plumes, forgetting to push hers back down. “Yes. They’re back.” Through treaties and promises of peace, armistice and good will, but Lena couldn’t hold back the notion that it couldn’t last, that something would break and they’d all shatter again, thrashing, scathing beings haunting the dusk for their lost loved ones. Silenced for a time, she merely captured the nuance of his words, the attempts at cajoling humor upon a foreboding situation. The nymph appreciated the gesture, but couldn’t forgo the feeling the fault had been her own. Apparently my ability to offend has improved since my departure. “Perhaps mine has grown as well.” A rasping, prying thread plucked at her seams, and her honeyed stare was rendered, returned, to his. “Did I err somehow?”

At his next query, however, she’s spun back into the hushed platitudes, a reunion of discomfort and dishonor. The only exciting portions of her life had been vile, searing, simmering decibels of violence, scathing and sinister, nefarious and irreverent. First, proffering onslaughts, terror, malice and menace upon monsters heading towards their homelands, and the second, for children, for a mother, exposing the maddening weight ire held within her soul. The nurse still felt the bits of shame curling and coiling in her throat, of vitriol and venom, of wrath and rage, she’d courted and flamed. It smothered, strangled, choked and suffocated, bore down upon her as a cumbersome secret, furtive, specious, clandestine, revealing far too many interludes and artifices she’d managed to keep locked away for swirling, passing seasons. She struggled with how to answer, respond, to the mere, innocent query: she was incapable of lying to her friend, of building and constructing deceptions and fabrications, and she knew she couldn’t truly ghost and coast over the ruminations, distract and divert his attentions. Her lips drew together in a serene, quiet command, brows furrowed, and voice finally roamed with mellifluous chords, an ambrosial hint within her eyes to drag him away from further discussion of her wicked deeds. To be reminded of her heartless, relentless, merciless exploit was a piercing, loathing juncture when she still hadn’t figured out how to overcome it. “Nothing I’d like to do again.” Calculated smokescreens and feints were established immediately thereafter, singsong and sweet, curious and serene. “How were your travels?”

To be reassured by Deodat was an interesting notion, and she stoked it in her heart for future reference, saved and preserved in the nuances of devotion and beloved benedictions, next to her wishes, dreams and philosophies. The Nurse attempted to return his gesture, selfless and altruistic as always, extending her soft maw with its earnest, rekindled smile, with its tender deliverance and assuaging fineries, towards his painted shoulder, the mountainous, cumbersome pledge and guarantee of his safety, of her foolishness, of their companionship settled once more. A weight left her chest, heavy and unsettled, bracken, thorned and barbed, drifting back into a siege of roses instead of their pricking decibels, of laurels and buds amongst crooning blossoms. Her voice, retaining corporeal and harmonious balance through the mystifying haze of confusion, befuddlement and restless enterprises, wove its incandescent soul along the serenaded wake. “Perhaps you’re right. Thank you.” She winked, nudged him playfully across his strong neck, bantered in the cooling depths. “You must tell me if I ever do falter, however. I need to set my mistakes to rights.” For all her well-meaning gestures, for all her determined, persevering threads, for all the knots she managed to unravel and untangle, she stumbled along the way, wore over paths that should’ve never been crossed, traversed or found, embarked upon primroses and was lacerated for her fallacies. Even now, when she yearned to discover what the loyal soldier had encountered amongst his wavering, wayfaring journeys, what he saw, what he envisioned, what urged him back towards their icy realm and not the many others worlds extended before him – she asked none, learning from the ages and sage of secrets, of furtive intrigues and vile, cursed curiosities, and thanked him for not pondering deeper into her own shortcomings. Perhaps all that mattered was his essence remained tied to their frozen apertures, to their wild, dominating mountains, to their glacial regions set into stone, into ice, into beautiful sculptures of enigmas and paradigms, rustling over his shoulders and claiming another for their obscurities. The songbird and kitsune dug no further, with Imogen skittering along the depths of frost and rime, and the nymph tending to her grins and welcoming signs, beckoning his stalwart light to stay in their fire, in their diligence, in their steadfast hold. Honeyed, ambrosia eyes strove to meet his, yearning to ensure his restoration into their rime hills was embraced, was cherished, was revered, providing another sweet smile to combine with the melody lacquered through her song. “I’m glad you returned.” Whatever ignited the ardor, the passion, of his recurrence, she hoped he’d always hold a steady grasp upon it, and refuse to flee back into the otherworldly denizens again.