She closed her eyes against the measures of wrath, felt them boil, bubble, and erupt from the voices cloistered around them. Nestled deep into the rhythm of sages and ambience was the telltale precision of malice, malevolence, and contempt. She knew their feelings, their sentiments, the violent, villainous laces, the loathing, avaricious gleams, and detested, deep within her soul, in her heart, that these foals, that this gentle dame, had to been burned and scored by noxious, sinister touches. As she sang, as she gleamed, as she strove to undo the damage invoked by wretched, wicked scoundrels, visions bled into her mind; fiendish raptures, undone by the fury of her herd, nefarious reveries, corrupted and destroyed by the ferocity of her brethren. The Mender attempted to swallow down the bile that threatened to gloss over her throat, poured and lacquered down her larynx, the glint of hushed wrath, feral indignation, crossing down the pathways of her divine essence. But Arah told her story, whittled and carved away the bones, the edges, of their torture, of their ruin, of their capture, and the scenes grew worse, taut and potent, strengthened vehemence and fortitude for her wayward companions, torn and bloodshed for no conceivable reason. Why would the world seek to strike down kind babes and nurturing dames, figures who’d never sculpted a licentious statue, never waxed a broken hallelujah, never enacted or irked strife? How far did the damned draw their swords and stones, attacking innocence and morality through the ample threads of inhumane vitriol? What did they seek beyond throngs and thrones of lunacy? To what end, to what purpose? What did they hope to achieve? And through it all – why had Arah and her daughters been chosen to assault? How many more would be unraveled, tormented, distorted before dissolution and oblivion were cast into their damned shades? Was sanctuary, serenity, and refuge a delusion, safety laying nowhere but the minds of the ignorant?

The sylph finished, ended her symphony, drawing her mouth to close before she grew hoarse and incapable, opened her eyes and continued listening to the stewing whims of her herd. Saddened and disjointed, the maiden hung her head before the babes, the cherubs, the ivory angel, and pondered the next steps, the recourses, the chains inevitably rattled and partaken. Would she take part in unwinding the havoc – she’d done so before, so many times over, deep in the heart of the Edge’s mist, or along the icy pathways of the Steppe, bled and bled and bled for the life of her cadre – and Illynx delivered the answer thereafter. She offered a silent nod in response and naught more, ghostly tracings of finality reaching over the eaves of violence; she wouldn’t be asked to participate in slaughter, but wind the hands of outreach and information, agents provocateur in a hazardous dance. The world would twist and distort again, and for their survival, for their persistence, she’d lend more alms to the destruction of a nation breathing down their necks.