Armistices and treaties, ceasefires and ends of wars – Lena dreamed of these notions amongst bramble and thorns, glaciers and caverns, wished it could last within the murky ages and the shadowed fixtures; another chance flickered and sparked before them. They followed a golden sword, disciples of the ice and snow, purposeful, adamant, determined and resolute, quiet whispers on the springtime wind. Like silk and water, the fairy and vixen moved through the chords of Birdsong bliss with curiosity, with stalwart fixtures, with minuet layers dancing along their coiled, rippled muscles. Given a task, she’d adhered to it quickly, efficiently, swiftly, like all other things and moments traipsed over her laurels and honeysuckle sprigs, she thought of adversity, of strength, of power, of dignity and nobility, attending the Lady down into the depths of the unknown. She’d never crossed over the lines of the foothills, wandered down into the prairies or traveled amongst the runes and ruins of these Hidden Falls (and with a bitter memory, she remembered she’d touched upon the Edge for a home, and then slaughter, the Throat to barter for a lost friend). She had, however, lent her honesty, her candor, in the depths of emissary lore, had attempted to orchestrate treaties and niceties before plucking the strands of mending and assuaging instead. But the notion, the picturesque beauty her imagination conjured as they tread across worn hoof prints and fine, airy copses, also provided her fancies and inspiration. Imogen bounded and rolled between their small, collected bounty, sometimes alongside the gilded Roland, to which Lena would smile and laugh at the minx’s attempts to swing one of her tails along his long columns, and other snippets batting at the long, wavering grasses summoned by the season. Carefree, whimsical tidings plaited over the lines of her motions before they arrived – and then, when they’d crossed into waterworks' borders, falls, fey delights, she drummed perfected composure, extended one smile towards Roland, perhaps to ease her own thoughts, and summoned the layers of her courage. The valor, the intrepid gaze, prospered another bout of spirits, intertwining into the fire of Illynx’s announcement and proclamation, a singsong hymn, a crooning decibels of light arias and strains. She hoped for calm bridges and warm hearts, she prayed for promises and creeds, benedictions and pledges; and not the cast-iron beat of treachery, upheavals, and maelstroms. They’d all seen enough of the latter.