Thrums and hums of the compassionate flourished and finessed from the eaves and arches of her movements, of her purpose, of her passions. Ebullient and jovial, she drank from divine ambrosia and knelt into the christened boughs of the Threshold’s copse, captivated each time she sunk into its nestled arms. Every moment was savored for the distinct flavor of the unknown: who pressed into its locked pathways, eager and ready for the taste of another adventure? Who chased their dreams, aspirations, hopes and follies? Who embraced opportunity, derived from airy constellations and thrown from the heavens? Who wove the world with delight, who scattered the remnants of their past with tenacious grasps? What path did they cherish, search for: declarations of the unknown, affixed and riveted towards enigmatic quandaries, trails of light and gold, warrens, mazes, and tangible potency? And if she found these delicate creatures, with their newfound stories, adventures, tomes, legends, and vivid tapestries, would they be willing to join her sanguine smiles, her effervescent chords, her strong, valiant herd? Could they be cajoled, invited, bestowed with the layers of ice and snow, with the glacial fortifications and enduring spirits? As she drifted through the parlors, the corridors, the opened doors, Lena ruminated, figs of pixies and persimmons of fairies, speculated and cast her gaze towards the broadened world. So many steps had been taken here, the gallant, the supreme, the powerful, the delicate, the sublime; and she wanted to grant all of them the chance at reaching for the stars. The world beckoned in siren-wails, in beguiling, alluring trails, and she embarked on the ruins of their songs – stirring nightingale sonnets and finch lyrics beneath the rubble and ruin of the vast, widened terrain.

Scents of the unfamiliar basked and floated through her nares, and she chose one to follow, quickening steps of the elegant, of the finessed, of the regal until her eyes ghosted over the creature she sought, idle and ivory by the babbling creek. Tales untold and slinking, paradigms of the unknown, wandering, wayfaring nomads (and she remembered her own journey from Threshold to herd, another startled, serene figure captured and cast into obscure foundations, how time had riddled and rattled, changed and molded her into a new form) – she drew from one bough and into the open, grinning and amiable, an affable fey cast into the dewy realm. One lilting aria burst from her lips, poignant and gracious, generous and kindled with the soft, dulcet edges of a hopeful divination. “Hello! I’m Lena. Welcome to Helovia.” She paused, tracing carefully forward, hesitant to startle the stranger, gaze fixated upon her horns, her swords, her rapiers, hallmarks of her species (but always so different, so wonderful, so amazing, telling their own parables and allegories through the wind they’d cut and scraped), brewing one more poignant harmony, mellifluous bliss in the corridors of Romani apertures. “Who are you?”