farenjer

When I open my eyes... I see the light and beauty of the world. Yet no matter how hard I try, I cannot open my icy, blue, eyes. The stallion reflected the poetic words through his head, as he stood stiff within his small cave, head lowered brushing gently against the cold terrain beneath his dark form. It was rather warm for a day within the Basins surface and it perplexed him on how the mysterious weather could change so swiftly. He began uncoiling bundles and tangles of cotton from within their dried leaf homes. Hoping to twist and weave them later into beautiful neat threads. He wasn't sure what he would do with the stored cotton later although, but he would figure soon enough.

The sun, once hidden behind grey clouds, revealed itself to the icy tundra. Its rays of light expanding upon the snowy mountaintops. Allowing the piles of snow to mirror the hot light back to the sky. The apprentice looked up from his work to look outside the doorway, sunlight catching his eyes. When it began to shine too bright for his sight, he turned his head away, under the shade of the cave's darkness. The sun's warm essence spread across his face where it touched, and onto his dark, ebony leg, where it stuck into the light. As the heat rapidly extinguished from his muzzle, he pondered if he should go outside for a walk. This work had become utterly boring since the third hour passed by within his concentration, and it was quite a nice day out for a stroll. He could see the figures of several different individuals on the other end of the mountains feet. They looked like they were enjoying themselves.

Casting a gaze back at the threads, he gave a hefty sigh. Putting his work down, the stallion began dragging himself outside. It felt welcoming to have the heat pour upon his back, being in the shaded cave since he had awaken. His mind felt fresher and more at ease it had been some time since he could enjoy himself. It seemed, Farenjer was quite the workaholic, he figured as he walked stiffly out. Loosening the muscles on his shoulders and flanks with every step he placed. He wondered if any of the basin members would approach him, it had been a while since anyone had seen him. After all he was a hermit, and the only time he ever came out, was in the mists of cold night. Where he would drink and graze at midnight. Which was also what made him appear lean, skinny, and tired from such a schedule.

The day’s light drew florets from stone. Catering to the whims and fancies of autumn, the nymph and kitsune careened along the mountains, immersed, pervaded, doused in joviality. Flights of the intricate: an angel’s halo, a seraph’s armor, a heavenly smile and divine stride, matched and conveyed, composed and sketched, in their virtuous motions and intrigues. Like a return to the past, stars and butterflies, Lena scoured, searched, and sought the scenes, the surroundings, the harpsichord strings, for pieces and fragments, for remnants and shards, for slivers and bits of ebullience. Could there be a touch, a caress, a finesse of merriment, exuberance, beyond the plaguing boughs of nefarious intrigues, dancing across the sullen frowns or forlorn entropies, or along the grave perils of sinister ruses and snares? A resurgence of wishes, of hopes, of ambitions and purpose burst into her lungs and wound around her veins; Faelene’s reappearance, Deodat’s return, companions flocking in droves back to their wintry kingdom, settling the arduous edges of her stalwart heart. As they embarked upon wintry pathways, whirled across icicle webs, fairy fingertips ghosting and billowing along pinnacles and peaks, they became restless feathers in the wind, pixie, sprite, fey conviction and aspirations, wisps of leaves, ambrosia and honey, saccharine cordiality restless, blooming. A flower molded into the wrong season and atmosphere, striving to exceed the layers and enamel of the despondent, the miserable, the immoral, the corrupt, dove across the depths and fathoms of the summits and trails, the unwavering pathways, the rigid, the diligent. Petalsoft footfalls, dulcet requiems, singsong assurances and fortitudes laced and serenaded their movements, forgotten roses and beatific, affectionate snowdrops. A leap, frenetic and wild, an untamed, ethereal being, coursed through her limber, lithe limbs, over mounds of Siberian prowess, ivory powder settled upon worn routes, a light, airy giggle pulsed in vibrant curls and puffs from her parted jaws. She paused for a few idle moments, tasted the finite runes of their crowns and caps as Imogen followed, chasing down the daydreams, the trances, the reveries and raptures of intoxicating revelry.

Faster and faster, hunting down fantasies, visions, absorbed in abstractions, in dreams and faith, poised in songbird prowess, a hum, a hymn, an aria sprouting from lips and whispering, crooning, murmuring upon the wind’s gentle sketches. Carried on by the streams of her laughter, the chirping of the pale kitsune, they cajoled and conjured, unearthly, fine, substantial things of the land, memoirs and memories of intangible glory and brief hallelujahs, and she would have continued on their rime and frost as a ferocious force of merriment and exultation had she not spotted another being below their path, stretching from his confinement to a nearby cavern. They ceased movement once more, gestured in curiosity and stared in wonder, for they didn’t recognize the creature (was there always someone new, always someone unknown, amongst this grand fortress, like a coiling surprise, ready, eager, waiting?). He certainly wouldn’t have been forgotten – for while his frame seemed tossed in the same hue as hers, sienna, made for the darker shades of forests and copses, camouflage for Stygian days, his markings were an emblazoned force of something else altogether. Her stare was enamored by the pieces of blue scattered across his features, as if touched by the heated intemperance of frost or electricity, beautiful and exotic. A molten bolero of curiosity brimmed in her mind; how did he acquire such alluring etchings, stunning, magnificent brushstrokes? She dared not ponder the queries aloud, and instead, opted to bellow her greetings in mellifluous chords, from above, along the inner columns of wayward passageways, gazing down towards his lean form. “Hello!” A rapid smile spun across her lips, coiled in the candor, in the measure, of her tenderness and generosity, genuine and humble, rhapsody and delight. “A fine day to be out in the sun!” She gathered her breath, and then opted to continue downward, meeting the stag upon level ground for introductions, instead of shouting along the intertwined heavens. Both beings bobbed their craniums in greeting, one stately fox, the other, a ditty, a strain, intricate verses wrapped in mahogany and benevolence. “I’m Lena. Who are you?”

Elegance and eloquence, prevailing and pervading, lilies and allure, persimmons and snares, wrapped around the woven conjectures of her corporeal form, studied the quiet solidarity of the crafter. He appeared all at once startled, then composed, unsure, then collected, ruffled, then unperturbed. Maybe the throngs of her ebullience had scattered away his confidence, and subsequently reshaped it back into its casual, aloof stance, as if the unfamiliarity of company, exposure to the world, to heartstrings and arias, had swindled him for a moment. Was he a creature of loneliness, forlorn and despondent, shirking grandeur and stature of others for the silken webs of silence and moroseness? Was their icy world, their strong, glacial walls suited for these characters, drifting amongst the moonlight and chilling, Siberian wake, content to pass over runes and majesty for ample thralls of peace, of seclusion and isolation, barren to the existence of another? Had she offended him, leaping and cajoling, shouting and grinning, simmering in the bounty of her joviality? The femme drew to a more reposed grandeur, tilted her cranium back and forth, gazing upon his markings as she pondered over the length of her upheaval. Too many times she’d managed to scar and muster what could have been delightful aspects and pleasant evenings, gentle mornings and easygoing dawns, with the might, the power, the prowess of her buoyancy and delight. Had she erred here too, left another beast and brethren bothered, dampened, soused and uncomfortable, rejoicing only when her radiant form flickered away into the dusk? A sigh almost left her figure, because she was tired of heaving dilemmas upon kin instead of celebrating triumphs or solving problems, but she rendered, molded, and sculpted the resolute sketch of her ambrosial outline; all fancy and whims, music and nature, listening to the trials and liberation of his own voice. It’s Farenjer. She longed to practice it across her mouth, dive into the different syllables and conjectures, derive finesse and grace from the foundation of its weight, but captured the thin determination of his vocals instead as he gestured towards Imogen.

The kitsune, for her part and consideration, strived to reach the apprentice’s hooves, peeking at the glorious, rooted markings, twirling and pirouetting, tails bounding in swaying reverence. Lena nearly laughed at the antics, often giddy, merry, delighted by the sights, the sounds, simplicity delving far deeper than the corridors of beauty and wonder; Imogen was forever a chiseled place in her heart, and she was eternally eager and willing to share her presence with others. “This is Imogen.” At the mention of her name, the vixen sprung into action, powered a mighty bounce from the snow and back into vibrant, fine powder, chirping and cajoling the beasts gathered within. Attention sought and struck, the sylph fixated her attentions back upon Farenjer, curiosity drawing quick strokes of intrigue, splashes of the unknown, dots of the unfamiliar. Gentle, prying queries, naught that would simmer down within his bones, past, become mired in secretive, furtive history that only the most clandestine of whims could intrude upon, postured their works along her mind, and she fed them with dainty arias and beatific ease. “What do you do for the Basin, Farenjer?”

Farenjer began to take shape in her inquisitive mind; quiet, patient, calm and collected beyond the fabric and techniques of ruffians, fools or infidels, deliberate along insinuations and sentiments. Pieces of his shell, of his vessel, of his presence, still remained an infinite mystery, and she was glad of this, not daring to delve deeper into the hallowed, hollowed perils of another; such motions, motives, realities and memories were destined for them and them alone, unless the beat of their movements gave credence, gave right, to unravel the various knots and threads that made them who they were. Queries, however, still beckoned and sang siren songs along her mind: how he acquired his beautiful markings, frosty and electric, if he’d been granted gifts to wear two elements at once, if they incited and kindled bouts of lightning or the clear, crisp ruminations of rime. The nymph absorbed what she could, smiled and broadened the horizons of amiable qualities, dulcet ditties and elegant arias, coaxed and provided while he made his own study, settling upon Imogen first. At the attention, the ivory vixen twirled, at the compliment, she bowed and chirped, appreciated his ability to recognize the art of beauty, the finesse and regal regard of her heavenly form. Lena laughed, a light, airy giggle crossing over icy surroundings, breathing divinity into burdened layers of powder and seasonal reticence. “She appreciates your keen eye.” A wink extended towards the engineer, courting delight and merriment through the murky heights of caverns and mountains.

Her attention and fixations drifted to his answers to her prior questions – and more character, more qualities and properties added to his form. A creator, a mechanic, capable of building from near nothingness, and she wondered, pondered, over lovely things he could charm and cajole from the wilderness. Could he concoct items of durability, of necessity, of strength and fortitude, molded for purpose, for goals and ambitions? Glowing trinkets, symbols of devotion and motivation, made from the deepest feelings of promises, beneficence and the tender, warmhearted beloved? Ironclad armor, woven for blackguards and the mighty, the proud, the strong, another wall for enemies to fall against? Her eagerness flowed through melodic raptures and harmonious notes, stanzas dipped and drawn into radiance. “A crafter! What are you working on now? Do you need any help?” Her curious gaze settled across the bold layers of snow, but saw nothing out of place, no construction apparent across the grounds, in remnants, pieces and shards, eternally willing to help pry oeuvres from dust. Imogen’s nose went to work, sifting through the resting wake and vestige of snow, but only settled beneath Lena soon after, discovering no sliver or trace. The sylph then recalled his separate inquisition, tossing the same utterance of her profession back upon her; something she held in firm, warm regard, a purpose, a motivation, a goal and ambition given to her by the deity of the sun, scorching and brilliant, gilded and resolute. Pride chiseled into the following vocals, a day’s gentle caress, a stroke of the unfettered, unperturbed. “I’m a healer.”

Crafting must have been a wonderful, remarkable occupation, creating objects from reeds, from cotton, from matter sprung from the air, fashioning, wielding, bending until they became something else altogether, necessities and items used to make their lives easier. Everyone served a purpose within their world, but Lena had never cultivated the opportunity to delve into a weaver’s mind, their exploits, their pursuits, what spurned and urged them on. Farenjer appeared proud of his profession, of his abilities and capability, harnessing and harpooning power into otherworldly articles and objects, honing temptation into corporeal roots and components, ingredients for better lives. Her smile remained an ever-abundant force, enjoying the sharing of knowledge and information, and despite not being able to assist him in his tasks, still embodying ebullience at the melding of kindred spirits. Curiosity continued to swell into harmonious balances, stoked and fueled by the constant queries surfacing throughout her noble mind, persevering through the chill, the frosted rime, the merciless mountain peaks. She didn’t display her disappointment in supporting upon his newest endeavor, the cheeky grin still in place, the luminescent glow still readily apparent, undimmed, undeterred. Another harmonious blend of chords flowed from her mouth, a tilt of her head, endless inquiry, dulcet and calm. “Blankets! What other things can you make?” Imogen sprung up ahead, another creature enjoying the notion of comfortable layers to fold over one’s body, press warmth into hides and pelts as the reign of Frostfall loomed closer. The fairy, however, became further fixated on his forbearance of healing – incapable of the press of blood, the rivulets of ichor, the wounds, murky and plaguing. Since he offered his own information, she continued in the same stead, bestowing the development of her talent. “I heal by song.” Another bright grin, as if the world was one bird’s delight, whimsical and fanciful, despite all the hardships she’d seen, labored, drew across her lips, assuaged and soothed by croons, murmurs, and lullabies, the plumes of laments and requiems. A slight frown marred her mouth, a furrowing of her brow, when she had to admit the depths of her mending ended there, and the press of other ventures should have taken place ages ago. “I don’t have the full knowledge of herbs yet.” A pause, a breath, then the stoking of amending these failings. “I hope to alleviate this soon, though. A nurse should always have many options.” Laughter followed, pleasantries restored, honeyed eyes regaled once more.