Hallowed balladeers and sanguine minstrels pulsed and pervaded through the thickets, clover, lilac and lavender, pressed and finessed into the warm, unraveling puissance of their whimsical aspirations, their quiet benedictions. Touching upon pieces of raw earth, carving and sculpting, molding and incising, the scores of heaven through their mellifluous haze, drunken on ambrosial stupor and tender well-wishes, veiling and shrouding the north in their affluent splendor. Amongst the midst of morning dew and Birdsong vestiges, raw and warm, delicate and airy, frayed and dainty, the two figurines played nuances of sonnets and ditties, strains bursting through the roughened, needled canopies of pine and ash, caressing, stroking, the fine powder of their homeland. They dove between rising, reaching boughs, sun-streaked leaves, giggled and sang on the wind, bolstered the height of vibrant, green plumes as they marched to the harmonious beat, the victorious sway. Each chiseled step, each mellifluous aria, was met with the arch and lilt of a bird, so the everlasting moments swept into fierce, wild, abandoned orchestras, symphonies and crescendos, eternal sunshine and winter flourish, christened and anointed as bells and carillons of Siberia, children of the warmth, the mountains, the peaks, the rime. They re-explored the depths of their sanctuary, combed inches of untouched beauty, became varnished and lacquered in the pieces of jubilation and exultation, honored with the serene glow of tranquility, of repose, of valor, of a world restored into untouched menageries, proud, distant, unafraid of the once clawing, crawling infidels bursting upon its land. Without taint, without scorn, without rancorous endeavors, they bit into the hollowed voids and painted them with illustrious brushstrokes; green for the ample spring mist, gold for the diligent, gilded brow the copses, the groves, the tree-lines wore, brown for the roots, the trunks, the scattered brush and bush alive and whole once more, and silver, silver for the stars, the constellations, unseen in the clear, vivid, blue sky.

Ghostly ambience strummed along the harks and beckons of cardinals, of robins, of nightingales bursting with life, with vigilance, with honeysuckle-spun effervescence, and the nymph wished she could bottle each strand of poignant melodies, trace, sketch, and utter them by rote, by heart. But even she, gallant and selfless, was not permitted such coveted, avaricious moments, and she allowed the notes, the ballads, to slip through her ears, her mind, closing her eyes and delving into their flavor, their flourish, for singular moments. Only when her gaze awakened once more, lashes stroking against vernal-kissed cheeks, did she encounter anything remotely unsettling; urging, incising, invoking her fanciful cranium to wander through the bulrushes, the laurels, the jewels of her power. Amidst the gathered forest was an older piece of coppice, once bursting with life and stretching towards the heavens, divinity streaked and amber spotted, now frayed, now broken. A limb, perhaps a stronger arm in yesteryears’ follies and wars, now lay cracked and barren, threatening to fall, exposed to the rights of snow and weary loads, fighting and aching for the chance to remain with its owner. With due diligence, with meticulous sentiments, the little sylph sought to place it back within the folds of life – and erupted into carols again. Like soft, dulcet waves, her throat awakened again, caught all the flailing tenors and capricious, feverish sopranos, and with potent strength, with delicious tenacity, the anthems sprung across her lips, dancing to the hymns, the melodies, the tunes and chirps marching in time, plaited together to heal, to mend, to assuage a being she’d consider a comrade.

But naught happened. The earth remained still, absorbing her power, drinking, lapping, swallowing her birdsong, contorting its life, its glow, its warmth, along pathways she couldn’t see, final, dying, withering echoes.

A frown mottled her features, furrowed her brow, chiseled queries from the luster of finery and contentment, for she’d caught, snagged, and snared the finality of her own enchantments, felt them flail and fail. There was an end to her means, not enough raw capacity or ability to grapple the pull of the wind or the sanctity of otherworldly limbs, and she was forced to stare at the oblivious crack of the branch – conspiring into deeper concentration. Another possibility nagged at her thoughts, and her eyes glanced briefly to her kitsune, Imogen nestled amongst the thorns and nettles, to which the pale beast only chanced the ghost of a smirk across her proud face. Time, the wind coaxed to her, time, the creatures of the wood whispered to her, and the elemental distortions hummed and stroked the wayward pull of her heart, wondered what it was to coax time to her own bidding. She hadn’t practiced, hadn’t used, hadn’t exercised its right since her name became amplified with the coursing of mending and a god’s gift, pondered over the means of its prowess, the state of its prior occupant. How far did it wind away at the days, the hours, the minutes of life? How deep could she dive into its fathoms, pull and retrieve what once lived, what once thrived? Would she be consumed by its threads, dazzled and beguiled to whittle away lost moments? But, if she never beckoned its influence, its dominance, its authority, how could she mend her patriots, fallen into the portals of violence and villainy?

She bowed her head as Imogen settled upon a set of stone, watched and enamored as her mistress, her companion, began to wind the watch of set junctures and intervals. She snared deep inhalations of breath, forgot to sing, and laced the conjectures and seconds heating at her blood, nestling into her core, burrowing along her chest, and poured her heart into the token cracks and frayed, twists of the wired wood. The nymph didn’t feel the sweat trickling down her ears, nestling along her nape, burdening across her shoulders, could only be devoured and swallowed by the inner sanctity of warped epochs and eras – watched as the wood, previously finessed and harnessed into decaying, dying strands, lifted into its potent hold, molded back into strong, virile limbs, displayed ambitious clasps and clenches, leaves springing from buds, blossoms blooming from nothingness. Only when it finally became set back into the tree of its birth, did she release the Time God’s power from her flesh, heave a heavy sigh, and sway on her feet, exhausted from her efforts, but displaying no more than a victorious smile across her dainty lips. The world was silent, but her head, her mind, her body, remained a resolute force.

[tl;dr: Lena practicing her time mending powers for the first time. Open to anyone!]