Expectations curbed and altered, a flow of water curved into a wayward bow; she pieced together the strange circumstances as evidence layered out in awkward formations: no more Weyrleaders, no more shadowy Mirage with hate at her breast and heaviness in her heart, no more foaming quandaries and beckoning fathoms wanton for their collapse. Instead, a Pegasus, and Kahlua, warm, sunny, bright, Queen of the Edge, curtailed her apprehension, released a heavy sigh, a molten breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. The bridge between the ghosts of their past tribulations seemed to flicker and die, cast off into the shells and shackles of former wraiths, all the regrets, all the violence, all the scandals, all the eaves of the forsaken and chained, were forged beyond with a glimmer of the nymph’s returned smile. She beamed, she prospered, she raised her head to the painted figure, once a glassmaker, now a monarch on a misty throne. Even Imogen, who before had chirped, had swayed, then sent an inferno towards someone else (because Kahlua was never a monster, never a demon, never a fiend, she’d been possessed like all the others, cast into stones and scythes), twirled and cajoled her bountiful nature towards the belle. A sweeping, valorous exultation floated amongst the Mender’s lips, curled and pulsed into coiled manifestations of joy, of buoyancy; companions found in the darkest of places. “Congratulations, Kahlua.” She bowed thereafter, a slight touch of her chin to her chest, gave reverence to another crowned maiden, bejeweled and glazed. Her muzzle grazed towards the sovereign’s outstretched velvet, a singular representation of her friendship, untainted, unsoiled, throughout the vivid trials and maelstroms, bedlams and heartaches.

The rest of the scene nearly passed without incident, a glare or two riddled from unknown faces, a smile still polished across her features (for with comrades and brethren nearby, she’s suddenly the sylph instead of the damned again), but a long, piercing screech mottled the air, and she searched for the rhyme, the reason, for its expanse. Draconic wings, leathery conjectures, like a maddened fireball pacing the sky, drew wrathful outlines towards Roland, and her heart gave a sudden leap. The ivory kitsune at her feet felt the same; suddenly sharpened into audible hisses, quiet, droning sibilations, following Lena’s quick steps as she placed her frame in front of the Impersonator’s, staunch, stalwart, calm, composed, ready to receive the dragon’s threat, the rage, the infernal contempt that Roland didn’t deserve. But just as keen, just as swift, it stopped altogether, finally controlled by its bonded. Her eyes drifted once to Roland, arching a brow and stifling a laugh (she didn’t know whether to choke back a giggle at the audacious scene, be concerned for their lack of influence over one another, or simply be relieved that he’s been unharmed for another day), before swerving her gaze back upon the newcomer, Resplendence. She was familiar, from the days of cave wandering and dungeon drolls – the nymph’s smile was painted back upon her face, lips stretched a little too thin – she wanted to say so many things but none of them made it past her mouth, naught but the slightest inclination of pleasantries. “A pleasure to meet you.” Lena paused, tilted her head towards the dragon, eyeing his features while Imogen quieted below her, extending song and influence along his might and courage. “Have patience, little one.”

Thereafter, she ruminated further upon the discussion around them, the threats rising past cliffs and shoal, past stoic peaks and harbored valleys, harpoons waiting in the dusk. Kaj, the gilded flier, the golden King, wanted more details of their plight, and her grin faded into the blighted weight of their circumstances, thoughts forged and formed upon Arah and her beautiful daughters (kind, gentle, tender and benevolent, undeserving of the munitions plagued upon them). The sylph, the nymph, the fairy and fey glanced towards the GildedBlade, nodded to ensure she’d relate the measures of what they’d seen, what they’d experienced at the saddened march of their beloved brethren. Dignified and regal, harmonious, she tied the strands of Arah’s heartbreak, the threads of her babes’ suffering, into the wiles of vigilance and perception, steeling her honeyed gaze towards leaders and onlookers. “One of our comrades and her children were taken by them. No one should have to experience the wounds and scars they now carry.” The details, fresh, rich, resting beneath the shades of her song, bleeding little entrails of horror, of terror, glanced over her heart, her mind, her soul, but she persisted, delivering the ditties, the strains, the melancholy vows of a requiem’s affair. “The Regime may seek to take more heads, more crowns, and more lands.”