Rosy vestiges of summer cast a pale conviction along the edges of the flowing lake, the teetering brim of the frothing springs – the world was their constant sanctum, pulsing and pervading earth with its sumptuous hymns. She sprung from the edges of blossoms and blooms, larkspur croons and sunflower murmurs, moonlight fluidity, quick, swift and without direction, enjoying the scintillating moments repose proffered. With listless proposals, with languid, lithe conjectures, she bestowed the same kindness upon the sovereign; with song, with dance, enriching, delighting, in nymph movements, in sylph motions. A lilting step, a harmonic waltz, a drifting, dazzling display of refinement and tunes, harpsichord leisure dappled in warm hazes, breathed in amongst the light, the tranquility, the serenity of cool breeze and soft creeds. Crowns of petals nestled amongst her mind, sketched and outlined the incandescent, everlasting glow of her honeysuckle-spun varnish, lacquers of delight, of merriment, of ebullience melted, melded, molded, into the finesse of her creation. As Lena moved, swindled, wandered, Romani properties christening, anointing, charismatic sways and genuine, untroubled composure (for once, a harsh wind didn’t utter broken, bracken, altered things clawing at their doorstep), a sound swung over the horizon, beckoning threads, songs of the returned. She, and matching beast gathered at her heels, ceased movement and immersed into speculation, conducting a trapping moment to inveigle the scent carried along the breeze – recognizable, but scarce amongst the summits and valleys. Had the heralded figure lost their way, drifted amongst ruins and runes before returning to the precipices, the wildlife, the wily apertures and rising summits? Imogen gave one hearty chirp, curiosity compounded both in too many prying gestures and inquisitive ruminations, and the Time Mender, wielder of instants, junctures, and moments, followed after the flowing white tails, enticed and tempted by the call of another.

Upon their approach, recognition dawned an easier light and ceremonious pinnacle. The spots, aligned, sketched, and traced over the femme were not that of a stranger; nor was she wilted, withered or decayed. Some unsung relief bolstered through her veins, through her chest, through her heart (this was not a occasion where she would have to sweep and serenade for the life of another, no threat pressed, no chasm opened up wide). A smile wove through her lips, wide, candid, natural grins and plumed rhapsodies, centered and given to the child of snow and ice, recurring and enacting upon the timeless art of restoration. “Welcome home!” Imogen noted the companion plunging nearby, horned, beautiful, exotic, and twittered several salutation, waved the ivory emblems of her heritage with friendly merriment. The edges of Lena’s finery longed to question, to query, of the journeys the maiden had made, of the images she’d seen, of the long strokes made before coming back into birthrights, but none were uttered. Instead, only the length of her elation gathered and grew, a surrounding bulb of contentment.

Illusions, despondencies, and chimeras of the unknown: Lena was remorseful for her lack of perception about dear painted Frost Fyre, with her breathtaking stars aligned and floating galaxies, handcrafted orbits and incandescent shades (questions within themselves, inquisition bound but silenced through her curious gaze). Never truly exchanging more than a few words, the sylph didn’t know the spotted maiden well, crossing paths once or twice through the plains of ice and rime, of valleys and summits, remained unsure and ignorant of her stories, of her tales, of her mythos and paradigms. She was unaware of what made her tangled, scalded, brooding in a fleeting warren, a molten labyrinth of the unknown, sinking and flailing from her homeland (and some deeper part of her nurtured and kindled some imaginative stories; perhaps a whirlwind adventure with beaus and ladies, scaling great heights in search of crusades and trials of juvenile twists and turns, returned with renewed perseverance and new outlooks), but also couldn’t fathom a notion to refuse the maiden. She was clad in Basin ruminations, lined and born into the midst and mist of its grand empire, eager and ready to return to the intrepid peaks, the scorn of her lost folly, the bewitching conviction of chilling elation. The warm breadth of her smile, the keen trumpet of her companion (to which Imogen nearly squealed in delight; amused by the loud rapture of the deer-like creature), was all Lena required for admittance. She carried no doubt, no hesitation, and considered the Lord and Lady would feel the same, eagerly extending another invitation to live and serenade amongst their wintry world once again. Faith, trust, and confidence, enlightened and emboldened, scintillated past her lips and swindled the horizon, warm, bright, hazy and tender. “The Basin would love to have you again.” The brilliant smile remained while her eyes ghosted and coasted along the framework of the great land, rising over the tops of the summits, of the icicle thrones and dazzling caverns, stones and glaciers combined into magnificence and time’s illustrious hold; she’d never leave this – but there were always others who benefitted from sojourns and richer tomes of sagacity, sparkling wisdom beyond the world they’d always known. She considered for a moment, over what the youth would be again, before asking her in turn. “What expertise did you wish to follow?” Another statement followed thereafter, lapsing into a hidden, subtle query the belle could either answer or decline, prick or follow, no judgments warranted or extended; mere, simple passions of a harmonic sylph glad another had been beckoned home. “I hope your excursion went well.”

The mare, Frost Fyre (a name laden with rime and embers, ice and fire) with her galaxies, planets, orbits, stars and constellations drawn across her eyes, her face, her mercurial halo, only gave the slightest touch into the unknown. Lena listened, quietly, absorbing the subtle hints and cues of enigmatic journeys and troubling, vexing quandaries. A furtive twist of the veil; and she shared no more. A wayfaring, Romani interlude sprung into distortion, perhaps, a wayward glance into the gloom, and she’d left with naught else but the deer beside her and a map of queries with no answers. She’d looped, disappeared into the midnight oils and then swung back into the icy chasms and aurora-lit valleys, and like so many others, had determined her venture would continue here, icicle sanctuaries and chilling havens. Understanding passed through the nymph’s beatific heart, and she almost reached out to the younger dame, whispering of spells and enchantments to flutter away the dusky shades of disappointment, broken delusions, and rancorous promises – but for once, she yielded and only gave the lilt of a honeysuckle smile and a kindred, spirited note. “You’ll find Zikar-Sin as the Haruspex; perhaps you could lend him assistance.” She fluttered and winked, fairy and fey twisted into a grand anomaly of fanciful delight and covert covers, laden in the sweet cavalcades of aspirations and dreams. She couldn’t proffer or bestow anything else but the lacings of her taffeta grins and harmonious raptures, not when secrets were so confined and depths so drowned in murky fathoms, only bright encouragement keened from her lips, delving into the harpsichord lanes of empire and sovereigns. “I hope it goes better for you now.” The Mender inclined her head, gestured another smile towards the companion, Imogen lowering herself into an indulgent crouch and pretending to stalk its horned figure, and then allowed her warm, tender gaze to alight back onto the celestial girl, preferring her not to hit any more asteroids. “Please let me know if I can be of any help.”