As if stung by nettles, by thorns, fey and beast didn’t cease their unrelenting movements; chaotic, frenetic, hastened by the chilling wind, by the gleam of rapiers and revolutions, by remnants and slivers of cruelty aced and layered into the enamel of abhorrence. Lurking beyond their reach was the menacing fringe of shadows, veils, nocturne upheaval, slinking, slithering, shattering the careful composure she’d always managed to conjure, to paint, to sculpt and mold. It was wickedness, cruelty, horror and terror melted, scalding, remorseless, into her bones, into her soul, into her essence, bleeding, bubbling, brewing over into a wild, abandoned apprehension, seizing and possessing, mercilessly coiled into her skin, and unless she told the rest of her icy kingdom, she felt it would corrupt her being entirely, rob her of all senses until she fell to its wrought-iron grasp, martyred and ruined. It ensued panic where there was once only the firmest, slender, willowy enchantment of calm, it propelled apprehension where there was only the lithe dapple of smiles and sunny silhouettes, sanguine grins and saccharine wishes, it sullied dreams and aspirations where she only pictured whimsical fancies, stretching out to embrace the earth, wind and sky. Brutality thriving, far deeper than the archaic, barbaric bounty of some of her herd, escalating and unwinding into the furthest reaches of the Steppe, and she could imagine it surrounded now, pervaded and consumed by the darkest threads of Lucifer, cackling and howling into the ferocious air. Bravery stolen, absconded, left the shuddering ambience of pixie determination, dust flickering and floating into the atmosphere to provide warning, to offer guidance and help when the toiling, turbulent grip of the agonizing, of the terrible, of the horrible, prospered its nefarious wake.

They arrived moments into the admission of their Lord, trailing behind Faelene’s fiery mane, capturing the rough vocals of the winter King’s divulgence; the Steppe wasn’t the sole land encased and snared in this zealous, undone debauchery. The Marsh, known merely to her by the phantoms lurking in the wings and the grinding bones swallowed by the bog, harbored and harpooned by this restless heathen, unseen, unheard, but felt in the trenches of their hearts. Struggling to catch her breath, shuddering, shaking, quivering in the platitudes of her journey, her rushed traversing over glaciers and walls, rubble and ruin, the sylph extended the briefest greetings, a bob of a head to each, before proceeding into the purpose of her whirlwind approach. Her voice rattled for a few moments until she regained gulps of air, entangled the whimsy of its safe, sanctuary stature, wondered how long it would be until they too were overtaken by the monsters hiding, breathing down their necks, clinging to their mountains and peaks. A song took over, passed along parted lips into the brewing, brooding atmosphere, filtering from ignorance to sedition. “The Frostbreath Steppe also has something evil brewing within it. I don’t know where it came from.” Imogen chirped as the nymph hung her head, disappointed she couldn’t gather more information before terror had struck her, had forced her into the sanctuary of the Basin, rushing headlong to inform her fellow patriots of what lurked beyond their borders. Still, somehow, stalwart, she forced another aria to croon from the depths of her salvation, determination, resolution, and perseverance ringing in her ears, offering more where she’d failed. Honeyed depths lifted, passed over the gathered throng. “Imogen and I can help. She possesses fire.” The mentioned ivory creature raised her cranium and extended her approval with a puff of smoke, a tendril of flames, curling from her throat, from the waving plumes of her tails.