Lena
I'm buried and covered peaceful under millions of stars

Lunar reveries, raptures traipsed and trapped in moonlight, spread nocturnal fervor through the breeze, through the eaves, through the northern features of the Basin’s sovereign brow. Amidst it all, she traversed along its hierarchy, basking within the warm hues and tints, as fey as ever, dancing on the ripples of its vivid colors, its opulent wonder, its lapse in time and space. Fairy lights, whimsical and capricious, built through the rhythms of her movements, of her songs, until they combined together in a plaited warble: glowing, enriched, empowering. Emboldened by the dapples of luminary prowess, the Mender pressed her form into swift, strong, curved motions, an arch of swallow indulgence across lines of frost, a lilting, harmonious tune tangled in the satin sheen of glacial air, refusing to bend towards nefarious regimes. Recognition slanted along her waltz moments later, nares widening to trace over the scent of their latest newcomer (Liit, pale and lost, stark and barren, desolate and shy), and she remembered their traversing from gateway to home, wandered off into pieces of copse, pine, and fir, Imogen whispering to her from the grass and the idle ponderings of where the newcomer had gone. She’d managed to scrape after the nymph’s pathways, and Lena followed in turn, twisting over the narrow bridges and gaps, the trails and corridors, the lit hallways and luminescent stones, trailing stories, tomes, legends forged amongst secrecy and subterfuge; mythos veiled and uncertain. In the murky dusk, she serenaded the nightingales and twilight boughs, coveted the stranger, the femme, intertwined through the bulrushes of earth, of glaciers, of rime and prowess. Though perhaps immersed, shrouded, touched by another time, another place, another world, the sylph sought camaraderie, faith, and conviction in their shared threads, in the silken cords of their home (brethren, proffered and never shattered, kindred spirits enlightened and protected by the mountains, the peaks, the summits). Close, nearing, then soft, undisturbed, listless calls of ditties and strains pulsed from her lips, stretching to a mellifluous beat, a swirl of feathers and down. “You made it!” Not daring to intrude any further, to press nearby, to swindle and spurn the timorous figure, a waif in the hills, a sketch of satin on the shores of their lake, she merely cast her voice from yards away, excitement billowing with each effervescent strand. “Is there anything you wish to know? To see?” Possibilities trailed and sketched, painted in wondrous portraits, and Liit only need request a suitable venue, and Lena would gladly provide the opportunity.