Nymph and beast danced through the moonlight, heralded and taut by the strings of its luminescent beams. They sway and twirl beneath the aurora aperture, glistened by the rising tide of silver effervescence, cling and caress the subtle, midnight plumes, the avaricious thorns flanking off into the nocturnal splendor. Like wood sprites, they dream and speak in silent, daphne convictions, laureled and blessed, because they thrive in the evening and blossom in the morning, twilight quintessence and dawn dew. They drank their fill of the mountains’ ambrosia, cool, breathless, wanton air – honeyed and sweet one moment, bitter and indulgent the next – cast off their glories for the sumptuous line of movement and motion. Swift and calculating in the first, fine, subtle moments of bliss, then a dappling of finesse, elegance and dignity, they’re a raw dip in grandeur through the copses and glades, specks of sienna sylphs and ivory foxes. Simmering and scintillating along the ambient breeze, alight, glowing, flickering from flames and lunar infernos, the Time Mender wore her crown of spirits and drifted through the elements, one by one, sumptuous and exotic, Romani and wayfaring, drenched and drowned in the corporeal, tangible threads of the gloaming surface. All at once, a song followed, thrilling and trilling, birdsong indulgence while the true fliers dream in the heady throes of slumber, bubbling and crooning past her throat in an elongated sonnet without lyrics, without chains, without stanzas. A flickering bout of time and passion, fluid and mellifluous, building and reaching for the heavens, for the skies, for the final outcries of anarchy and its lavished decadence (to pull it down, to wash it away), a crescendo, an orchestra, a symphony of hopes, aspirations, and ambitions. It doesn’t die or yield, as persistent and persevering as its creator, her prowess, her power, manifested in the warmth, the glimmer, the radiance, of the Basin. She touched everything she cherished; from the caves, the vibrant wiles of snow and powder, icicle drips from cavern ceilings, wild, untamed boughs of pine and fir, then quickly altering her petal soft steps towards the lake and its never-ending sanctity.

The dabbling of water, the soft brim, the deep, piercing void of its depths, offered her tranquility and salvation, but as her eyes roamed from the edges of shore to the waving cattails, she noted their arrival was not the first of the evening. Imogen chirped towards the gathered along the other side, one cloaked and painted in instant recognition; Roland, newly instated Thief, furtive and gilded. The other seemed to occupy the moon itself; so refined, so chiseled, so sculpted from the pale expanse of the satellite’s surface. Maybe he was an embodiment of its core, rattled and molded from its lunar layers. She drew closer with no fear, presumed Roland had brought another from the depths of the Threshold (because the scents of its world came along the wind, soft and locked away, buried and borrowed keys slipping through gates and passageways), no trepidation. Instead, hardly any alterations were made to her features, only a bright, genuine smile elongated through her lips, a hum lowered to smooth, subtle decibels, jubilant, merry, ebullience and finesse in the shards of newcomers and friends. They polished refinement in graceful flicks, ivory kitsune racing ahead to join the golden Thief and his compatriot. She twittered and twirled for their amusement, sniffed the air and feet of the stranger, as Lena rang out in sweet, welcoming tones, exuding melodies, rhapsodies, singsong, sparrow calls and nightingale exuberance. “Good evening!” Reaching to where her companion loomed, her grin grew even further, dulcet and serenading, dipping her head towards the foreign follower, and her wily ally, raising its length to speak in buoyant tones. “I’m Lena, Time Mender of the Basin.” She extended a crafty wink towards Roland, noted the vague lines of concern etched along his face, focusing her attention back towards the youth (the tired sketch of his bones, the outline of fatigue), and carefully polished the edge of her hums, of her hymns, until they became background nuances and bird flight; murmurs, croons, of delicate finesse, of pressing, brilliant calm, serenity and repose. The sylph uttered one more necessary plunge into the queries and salutations, but no more, because pressing and prying (though deeply involved in intrigues and curiosities) could scare away the tender feelings of a newcomer’s first breath, step, into their strange home. “Who are you?”