L E N A
reaching as I sink down into light

The journey from the Threshold was unlike so many other odysseys; slow, laborious and arduous. Lena didn’t convey her youthful whimsy, her brush against ambrosial roses, or her dancing in the fickle beams of light. This earnest, resolute traversing did not harken the fanciful, fey sentiments of her otherworldly vagueness, the dreamy, mystic chords of enigmatic mastery. Instead, she heralded the other attributes of her tenacious, spirited mind, proffering her shoulder to creatures that needed, required, her formidable prowess. They drifted as one segment, naught of ethereal canticles and elegant artists, but as a damaged union, the impaired and injured. She led them over mangled roots and torn shrubs, through ashen graveyards reburied by falling leaves, amongst curling fronds that crinkled in the dew and scattered in the wind, soft and silken in the gossamer tendrils of a blessed sanctuary. She crossed silent valleys and ruffian clifftops, the breaking waves crashing against sullen rock and rubble, and hummed a dulcet tune between her lips, a soothing aria that dove over boughs and around ferns. She didn’t know their names, only their necessity for survival; the wrenching torrents of pain shambled and reassembled over each sinuous step, each short stride, and each gallant motion.

When they arrived in a particular glade, she ceased movement. Regal cranium twisted in different directions, velvetine maw lifted to the arching winds and the covenant breeze, distinct in the rhapsody of so many individuals. She didn’t know his name either, this providential healer of the Edge, and could only rue the unfamiliarity, how foolish and clumsy it was to remain ignorant of so many herd members. Yet, she beckoned that adamant heart to regain its fortitude, postured her mouth to call for this infamous doctor. It was a hastened cry, the slipping, coaxing call of distress, not for her benefit, but for others, these poor, suffering strangers. A kind eye nestled to the tired, wavering creatures she’d brought from the dark trappings of shadowed corridors, reassuring and comforting. ”He’ll be here soon.” And after that, after their healing, would they stay? Would they strive to be included in the Edge, with their fellow horned brethren? Or would they continue on in their journeys, finding elsewhere, another land, to grow and prosper? These curious endeavors struck her mind, but she didn’t voice them – they were other matters entirely. Wounds should be closed first before others opened.

[First Irene/Chastity, then perhaps D’art would like to make an appearance and heal? ;D Then whomever else would be welcome!]

L E N A
reaching as I sink down into light

Waiting was a hazardous game, but it was the only sentiment Lena had to offer. Despite her compassionate, affectionate heart, she didn’t have the careful, soothing tides of healing charms or spells, anything that could provide an ailing creature with comfort; merely her words, assuaging and alleviating, could reduce a hapless, hazardous situation, she doubted they could diffuse pain. She listened to their quiet murmurings with a heavy head, suddenly incapable and useless in a dire hour. She didn’t like such a helpless feeling, it reeled and withered in her heart and soul like a scalding iron, uncomfortable and unsettled, watching the growing shadows and setting sun, looking for a creature that could deliver the remedial curatives they so needed. When one of the femmes crooned for the doctor as well, the sylph felt even more dismayed at her powerless abilities of naught. What was she good for then, here in the murky hallways of chilling winds and lost, wandering entities, if she couldn’t provide for an injured fae and a weary traveler? Frustrated at her own inadequacies, the sienna nymph gathered her form closer to the two, hoping to offer warmth as the autumn winds frosted the hills.

However, they didn’t have to anticipate much longer, for as she began to drive her head hellbound once more, a dark beast appeared upon the horizon. The first characteristic she noticed and noted was the horn, a sword of visible tenacity, of another barb, shiny, porcelain, glass? Was this the fabled Doctor, the miracle worker spoken about upon the branches and leaves, amongst the curling fronds of blossoming petals, along the inner darkness of vacant, Edge halls? At his approach, for he seemed to administer to their calls, she bowed her regal head, bade a noble bob of respect, and began the task of witness all over again, as he set about his work. He was seemingly a genial fellow, immediately querying with a charismatic glint, and Lena almost tilted her cranium in curiosity – had he seen so many injuries prior that they no longer made a difference to his eyes? Was he cheerful in hopes of sparking an assuaging candor? She rendered a small smile; polite and warm in her own genuine regards, proffering her name from parted lips. “Lena.” Thereafter, she crept a bit closer to the injured and professional, honeyed gaze traveling back and forth, inquisitive about the nature of his design and treatment – did he unfold these balms from within, or did he need other objects to satisfy and seal a wound? Perhaps, so as not to feel so incredibly unnecessary, she could provide some further assistance. Allowing her dulcet words to flow once more, she whispered into the murky threads of healing and restoring. “Is there anything I can do to help?”