Toasted to measures of the sublime, ambrosial standards enacted and composed, like swift, serene hums and croons of the resonant, the words of Alysanne prospered and bolstered with minstrel chimes: declarations of exploration at hand. They’d roam and discover instead of be entombed in the rubble and glow of a illustrious cavern, bellow and sway in chipper exultations and buoyant regard instead of the haunting plume of bewitching, eldritch sepulchers, caught like thieves in underground waterways. The belle was only too happy to allow the surveying to take place, the wandering, the wayfaring, the Romanic travels with a friend instead of ghostly hymns and gallows creaking, serpent shards slinking, wild, free, peaceful dove ruminations crossing into the divine spirits of their kindred graces. They could rest on their laurels and their blessings, covet and speculate, laugh and delight, weave bliss and arches of lilting song, find freedom in chasing after medicines, herbs, spices meant to heal, meant to soothe, meant to replenish soldiers and maidens marching into battle. She giggled at the Moon Doctor’s proclamation, everything would take quite a while, but it meant no matter to her if that meant a friend stayed with her a little longer, if she was allowed and permitted to mingle, loiter, chip away at a day’s length with a companion and their glorious purpose. Her mind roamed, cherubic and speculating, over the plants murmured, by no means ignorant of the bushes gathered among tundra lines or curling around cavern walls. The bearberry clung to Siberia’s threshold, alpine and nourished by bees, and the pasque flower along droves of violet, sepal fingers clustered in bells. The latter, however, held a distinctly toxic endeavor for most occasions, leaving the nymph to briefly wonder over the root of Alysanne’s search – though in some livelihood, all curatives could be driven into poisonous doldrums. She smiled, and thought no more on the cold speculation of venomous attributes, drifting in harmonious tunes once again. “I know of both! Let’s attend to the bearberry first.” Imogen chirped in response, leading the way along thickets and groves of snow, of waving blades of grass, tails matching the kindled sway of wind and late spring breeze. Marching, waltzing, dancing in the repose, leaves on melodies, springs on rose bulbs, she kindled more mellifluous tones, lapsed into her pursuits and the others’. “I’m searching for cotton and flax. I’m hoping I can appeal to one of our Weavers to fashion myself a bag to carry any herbs.” The pause, the smell of sweet air, the tune of Imogen floated through the branches, the bramble, the titanic Sentinel growing farther and farther away. “What drives you to the bearberry or pasque flower?”