Trumpets of messengers: canaries strung and carillons sung, cautious and sinuous, unwinding fans of the reserved and callous schemes roaming outside their walls. Like honored guests at regal halls, they’d served as sirens and beacons, lights beyond the daggered monoliths and crawling barbs, then drifted back towards their own columns and pillars. She settled into a languid, listless pace, roamed beside knights and blades, wondered if she bore her own scythe for the minstrels and sages, or wove a gilded timepiece in her heart, swore it upon oaths and kindred spirits who’d been burned and scalded on villainous conduct. Had she played her part, regaled and ruminated, sang and withered, or were there more heathen raptures awaiting them in the wings, nefarious and stubborn, prevailing and demonic? Would she be able to swing another gallows harpsichord into the decaying fortifications of the malevolent, of the malicious, of the abhorrent, absconding and roaming over ruins? Or would she be another whittled, empty hand, baying and swaying on the waves of the enigmas, battling her own quandaries as ruffians carved their way into more games, more acts, more stages? With the Regime’s cards shown, would another rise from their ashes, embers, coals, and lay to waste one more inferno, swallowing, conquering, devouring the endless kingdoms and sovereigns? Amidst all these thoughts, she wandered in pace, kitsune and nymph, christened small talk with various inflections, singsong patterns tossed into the mix, as if the adventure had been finished, quieting and polished, serene and tranquil, while the bounty of her mind worked in persevering apprehension, coiling and curling. Home, however, enlightened her face back into sanguine statures, lifted the edges of her lips into laureate smiles and jubilant measures, frost-laden tips of summits and mountains beckoning the final pieces of repose into her blood – when Illynx’s query roamed into her sentiments.

A portion of Lena grew hesitant at the bewitching aim of the GildedBlade’s grin, the slide of the Lady’s voice combing through the rigor of her spine, the glimmer in her eyes, pointed, like a cutlass, towards Roland’s figure. For a moment or two, a weary gale billowed through her mind, because the world was ever changing, ever turbulent, and some small portion of her wondered if another soul was to be jettisoned and harpooned out of her life for an inconspicuous reason (the Impersonator had never done wrong – and surely Illynx knew of how long he’d been in her employ). Had Roland mismanaged a mission somehow? Had they been unknowingly thwarted? Had he a limited timeframe to enact an orchestrated menace? And for all the questions spinning about her head, she believed none of them could resonate anything untoward; he’d been loyal, she had faith in his every regard. Forced into silent speculation, her eyes wandered from beast to beast, conjuring what she hoped to be improbabilities and mere fallacies amongst the specious wake, awaiting for some tense moment in which declarations were made and her reactions would have to resonate from composure, from calmness, not the quick, sudden, swift, valorous streak residing in her heart and soul.

She watches them both, how they look to her with different levels of anxiety and curiosity flashing across their faces; it should make her laugh that it seems Lena is more fretful about this sudden turn of pace in their conversation than Roland is, but the Lady holds a mask of composure as she waits for the stallion’s response, her eyes the only tell tale sign that she is amused.

Her crown nods as he states his term of service, letting her gaze slide evenly from one to the other as she returns his smile. It’s hard to believe that time slips by so quickly that it seems only yesterday that they all had met one another, that so many years have passed without so much as a wave goodbye. She did, at least, still have the comfort of these two, among many others; her brethren on the mountain, so distinct and different they each were but for their genetic heritage, the ones who had survived and suffered through all the plights and woes of life and ambition that swept through their homes and attempted to make their hearts falter.

It would not be so, not for them. She knows this in herself, even if she is to die or be usurped tomorrow; they will remain together. They have known no other way for too long, and for some, she even suspects true loyalty, true love.

She does not know what Roland feels. Whatever it is, she knows he finds the Basin worthy of defending in his own quiet ways, and that is all that truly matters to her, even if he does not believe that the crowned should smash the smaller things beneath them, even if he will not dance upon the skulls of the damned with as much glee as she does…

She believes he will still be dancing there, when the time comes.

He’s been there for everything so far.

"Too long to remain in one place and be so helpful, I say," she says with a giggle, her eyes slipping towards him with a delightful twinkle in their depths and a playful smile tugging at her lips, "add your wisdom to my council, Roland. Honor our herd by becoming our new Thief."

@[Roland]

As quickly as the tension, apprehension, and disquiet mounted, like mottled, stained, blotched segments of her soul varnished into frayed nerves, tense predilections and feverish augurs, they dissipated into the horizon. The flourish of Illynx’s eyes, playful, as though Lena had been mere putty in her hands, molded and sculpted for her entertainment, informed her of no dancing threats, no myriad of hostility, and no raw pit and pendulum for the Impersonator. There would be no call to Roland’s defense, unnecessary, purposeless – because the Lady had seen his worth, seen his value, seen his loyalty and regard. The breath the nymph had been holding slowly eased out into the air, like a silly, triumphant laugh, a pulse of relief that the day would continue on in merriment and delight; they held no need to diminish or dash it off into the plagues of wrath and dismay. In fact, as the words bounded and echoed from the GildedBlade’s lips, a sense of great pride for her friend swelled within her chest, pervaded through her ebullient essence, twisted harmonically in the warm beat of her smile blooming into the background. He, like so many of them, had carved a niche into the endless quandaries and queries of their world, had been triumphant in the barbs of ruination and despair, had managed to whittle away into the boundaries of ice and cold without violence, without villainy (he’d surpassed her there too; because she’d driven her frame into onslaughts of monsters, beasts, and vermin, had fallen on swords and swept her own across flesh), and now, was being rewarded for all of his efforts. Thief, a position once held by the wise Faelene (where was she now – drifting amongst the runes and fragrant fields, waiting for someone to find her?), now encompassed by another figure of worthy standing. Roland deserved the gesture, to lead the band in secrets, in cloaks and daggers, in mysteries and enigmas, especially when he trimmed and veiled himself so neatly into concealed, clandestine intrigues. Light, triumphant, she plucked at the mellifluous strings of her vocals, relished the chords, the eaves, of the wind, the sonnets, the aspirations of another fulfilled. “Congratulations!” His widened eyes, a flicker of surprise, and then grand acceptance of his new role, only bolstered her grin further, invited her to a celebratory bow in his direction. If only the world could always be this way: eternally honoring the creatures seeking to empower it.