The Time Mender’s morning began with stretching out limbs, yawning, murmuring well wishes and mulling over dreams, pulling her body from the nestled blessings of boughs and branches, and smiling at the sun’s rays filtering through idle, dancing leaves, courting the threads of life back together for another day. With Imogen curled up nearby, soaking in the dawn’s essence in a steady bout of slumber, the nymph partook in herb gathering and hunting on her own, close and safeguarding her companion with one eye steady on the ivory form, and other upon the ground’s gifts. The pathways, either created by petal soft does leading their fawns to water, or the silent, awe-inspiring Romani interludes of her own wayfaring species, were lined with distinct edges and brush, ferns, berries of use, good-fortune, or ill will. They remained silent, void of explanations and answers, winking and teasing, coy minstrels sunken and rooted into the ground. She attempted to piece together knowledge from Alysanne’s notions, her father’s infinite wisdom, the innocent bearberries, the distinct pasque flower, others hidden jewels and furtive shards along the forest floor, enticing, inviting, tempting. Another prompted her interest, a little berry clustered in evergreen undergrowth, amber and bright, blossomed with fruit and intrigue. Perhaps this was a cloudberry, enriched in vital nutrients and wholesome for her herd, her friends and allies, not cloaked in deception or unease; the notion transpired quickly, but was lost a few moments thereafter by the sound of footfalls and rustled feathers. The sylph, eternally curious, inquisitive, and emboldened by the queries her mind constantly brewed, pondered over the noises, the raptures, the reveries of another within the corridor. She followed quite gingerly, soft and sliding along the moss, across the bracken and thicket, slipping into the copse veneer and lacquer, careful not to crush sticks and boreal debris, hesitant to utter a sound. Perhaps it was another companion, undaunted by the scent of her presence, longing to venture into sleep, loathing diurnal hymns and rush of midday sonnets. Maybe it was a friend, weary and fatigued, and needed protection, a watchful eye, from the labors of the dawn, too mulled and murky from twilight’s ebb and flow. As she grew closer, quiet and dulcet, her attention remained fixated upon a silver coat, a twitching of recognition, a form and frame she hadn’t seen in ages (when was the last? When danger and treachery struck, when monsters came into the night’s shadows and concocted mayhem from their rhapsody?). Tangere, a scourge of her own heart, seemingly well after all of the trials, the tribulations, the afflictions they’d overcome and rampaged against; a friendly grin crossed over her lips, limbs, smooth, finessed, approached with a quiet, unsung ambience, a vibrant, silken whisper pulsing and pervading amongst the sylvan loam. “A wondrous return, Tangere.” As if uttered through a dream, circling through membranes and minds as a vision, as a trance, flickering and fluttering like her pale raven, plucked from the strands of virtue and divinity.

The sweet dawn of Tallsun hailed an assuaging tone and hold, grasps of the tender, of the united, of the warm and guiding. Another bright face instilled the philosophy and grandeur of the morning: a day considered joyful and radiant, and Lena polished her smile into a wholesome, widened grin at the regal features of Tangere’s enlightened chords. The last moments she remembered of the argent frame was a fleeing figurine, ghostly and winding through the wind at her behest, at her command, escaping from the clutches of an uncertain fate (friends turned to monsters, demons returned to companions), shirked, free of damnation and chains. The Mender was grateful to see, at least from her careful glances and uninhibited movements, the femme was fine, healthy, no worse for wear from the plagues and pestilence of demonic interferences, as enthusiastic and impassioned as the seasons before. Based upon her following vocals, she wanted to continue from where they’d left off, brushing past moss and thickets, spying through copses, craving intellect and knowledge of the flora, the fauna nestled amongst the bramble and thorns. The nymph wasn’t a creature to shirk her duties, nor cast away a willing student, and though she couldn’t prescribe or lavish as much wisdom as Alysanne or her sage sire, the sienna belle was forever inclined and prepared to try. Her agreement floated on the length of a smile and excited clamor, whistling through the boughs and branches, twisting towards where Imogen laid in the morning sun, awakened and following the high rise of her beloved’s voice. “Certainly! We could begin now, if that suits you.” She tilted her head towards the emerging query, allowed her gaze to flit and flicker over the diamonds in the rough, the untouched herbs and designs silent at their feet. Perhaps there were specific needs in Tangere’s mind, little plants flashing through her mind, absolute or contrary. “Is there something you’re looking for?” Then she lowered her tones to an unwound conspiracy, a touch of play and folly in the eyes of fanciful delight and whimsical airs, whispers to giggle over. “Or do you wish to delve and explore?”

Tangere’s requests were refreshing, her interests compelled and spiraled into the juncture of healing, of mending, of assuaging, and the subtle, hint of poisonous, toxic vectors. There was a time and a place for everything, and though her inquiries were well-versed and curious, Lena wasn’t sure how much emphasis she could place upon the venomous raptures of herbs; given the right amount, a large amount of their beatific blessings could become barbs, decadent, ambrosia only for demise and quietus. She intended to tread lightly upon the subject, then steer her towards D’art, who had a much firmer grasp on conventions and sentiments towards thorns, banes, and polluted pestilence. "If you're interested in blights, you may wish to consult D'art. I believe he has a keener understanding of them." He'd relish in the effects far more than she, who looked to repair and restore, not paralyze, distort or maul. The Greenhouse was another topic they’d have to tackle in a later stead, once the pieces began to form more readily together, sturdy, strong, commanding and brimming on the horizon. The Mender smiled broadly once more, then tugged on the sanctity of inexperience, turning and twisting in her acceptance of the task, nuzzling the eaves of the timberline and gesturing towards the laurels and jewels hidden amongst their lingering sphere. Her maw grazed lightly over the gnarled plants and the nurtured flora opening their blades, their crowns, their tiaras and pearls, along the sun’s widening embrace, dewy, beaded, enlightened. The lithe, dancing Mender, waltzing on the tails of Imogen’s wavering stead further ahead, searched and pondered over which amiable trail to follow, when her warm gaze softened and speculated upon a thin-branched sapling. Moving towards its slender, lissome sanction, she nestled her muzzle on one of the delicate, fine boughs, then swayed softly, her noble cranium riveted back upon Tangere, hoping her pupil would note the characteristics of the young tree. Soft, bending easily against the pressure of the cool wind, narrowed leaves alternating across from one another, little sanctioned patterns christened and anointed into timber and hope, leaves dancing on serrated brims and fringes, the white cluster of flowers pinpointed from blooming buds. She tipped her stare back along the framework of the slender surface, and spoke of the brief wisdom she had upon the svelte subject. “This is a diamond-leaf willow.” How it remained so fragile, so fine, in the slant of the tundra air was a mystery to her, but its survival was an impeccable outreach of nature and all of its unseen strength, its unspoken potency. “We can use the leaves for medicinal purposes, and they’re a good source of vital nutrients. Depending on the willow, and perhaps if we find the white version, we can utilize the bark to relieve fever, pain, and swelling.” She paused in her song, then coaxed the melody into further expansion, as if all the runes needed to be added to necessitate, orchestrate, proper sagacity. “It also burns very easily, in case you’re ever in the need for a quick fire.” The nymph winked, then waited, eager to move onto the next herb, but lingering over the traces and folds of the tree, in hopes Tangere would examine and investigate it closely, remember, hasten it into memory, or herald any queries.

Lena, only happy to continually oblige, instruct, or offer what scant wisdom she held upon her brethren, granted Tangere another emboldened grin and singsong serenade. “You’re welcome.” Entreating the willow with a firm amount of respect, a harmonious tune, she fluttered back amongst the bracken and bramble, taking her time as they picked amongst the underbrush. Her next plant, a distinct, nourishing little thing, would be along the forest floor, masquerading as brilliant lining of the earth, soft beds or luxurious nests. Slowly, Imogen wafting beside her, the Mender poked and prodded the gleaming, verdant surface, pushing away nettles, thorns, needles and tender shoots, not allowing her face to fracture into a frown when the flora failed to present itself. She gently folded the fixtures back into their proper place and waltzed ever further, deeper into the sanctioned, hallowed timberline, warm gaze eternally pinpointed toward the ground, presuming Tangere followed just as smoothly, just as quietly. Eventually, amongst the darker fronds and ferns, she spotted what she’d been yearning to find, uttering her contentment with a reassuring melody. “Ah, there it is!” Lowering her maw once more, the velvet extension gestured lightly to a series of wooly branches with narrow leaves, smooth on the top, haired and rusty on the bottom, curling amongst the terrain. At the end of each bough, clustered together, like little ornaments, were ivory blossoms, tiny and blooming in the summer season. The nymph, and current sprite, fairy, fey of the forest, inclined her cranium towards the silvern mare, wishing, hoping, longing for her to advance, get closer access, to the intriguing verdure. “This is Labrador tea. If we were based more southern, it would grow like a tree, around four or five feet high. However, due to our northern climate, it coils along the ground instead.” She hesitated, ceased speech for a moment to gather more information about the current focus, then heightened her aria, her strain, to embark faithfully into the vegetation’s highlights. “We can use the leaves for a variety of things. The tea is rich in vitamins, and would be especially beneficial to those with stomach ailments or an increase in nerves. I’ve heard it’s been utilized for skin problems as well.” Her eyes ghosted quickly to the horizon, noting the changing alignment of the sun, morning slipping away into afternoon hours, and eventually, unfolding into the bright, crisp darkness of the moon’s sovereignty. Immediately thereafter, the adamant gaze glistened right back upon the nurse and her ivory raven, a query flourishing between time’s illustrious tapestry, flowing in affable bliss. “Do you have time to see one more?”

Tangere’s enthusiasm held its persistent glow, and Lena’s continued to grasp its steady light through the dimming hours, her eyes rushing, her body swirling, twirling, to the shrinking embers of day and the quiet arrival of dusk. Her search had to be quick, fleet, to avoid the risk of not finding the appropriate plant and cutting the lesson due to midnight oils and veils gathering across their gazes. Ever persistent, her mind stoked to the edges of Alysanne’s own lessons as they’d listlessly loitered amongst the warm fields of the Basin’s borders, rekindling familiar diatribes and moments of happenstance; but the memory she reached for contained a floret, lavender and white. Turning her cranium to ensure the silvern femme followed, the nymph dove deep into the copse’s threshold, seeking out a sloping surface, grainy soil, where the little blossoms enjoyed cultivating their home, growing amongst the hardened world; strong and staunch, ready and eager to survive in a climate not suited for the delicate and feeble. Eventually they reached a side of a nearby peak, and through the nestling darkness, the colors dotting the horizon in brilliant, lustrous hues, she found what she was looking for. Her stare resonated across blossoms rising from the tough ground, petal adorned, stem covered in silken hairs, searching for the next press of the sun. The Mender reached down and brushed her maw against the tiny leaves, then twisted her gaze to settle back upon Tangere, rustling, conjuring, and composing another song dedicated to the laurel below her. “My friend Alysanne showed me these: the pasque flower.” Her smile remained, painted in light fixtures as she ghosted through the ruminations of the object, offering prior regards and credit to the Moon Doctor of the Edge. “It tends to grow low to the ground, like the Labrador tea. However, its remedy lies in being able to help with our eyes. Apparently it can treat cataracts.” She nuzzled it once more, as though appreciating its humble services, before backing away and providing Tangere with a clear image of its bounty. After a moment’s pause, the lithe nymph saluted her sentiments towards the fellow nurse, who’d been so eager and content to spend the hours exploring, diving, investigating plants. Perhaps in some portended moments, the time would prove useful, extending and bestowing their patriots with the remedies they needed. “Thank you for joining me, Tangere. I hope the experience provided you with some wisdom?”