She drifted through the pathways and peaks, dipped and twirled amongst the outcrops and primrose trails, a fairy light in the pinnacle of the midday’s sun. Bright and enchanted with purpose, with direction, she didn’t take time to stare upon the icicles trickling from open caverns or pay homage to the dancing, shimmering beams of the sun against the melting ice, building a crescendo of feathery steps, gliding along the rime and ice as if sculpted from its more radiant ramparts. Behind her, following like an ivory shadow, wove Imogen, carrying a bundle of flax in her mouth, quietly humming beneath the layers of plant life, proud to be burdened with this great task. Any other moments would be split into ebullience and jovial pursuits, a dance upon the hills, overlooking the sovereign valley, the great rush of snow and tundra, whistling against the fir and pine, searching for newcomers or cajoling fellow patriots – but Lena’s mind, a constant swirl of resolution, determination, and hope, had brought her into the twisted conviction of herbs, gathered little barbs, thorns, blooms, and blossoms, meant to soothe, meant to mend, meant to aid; palms and alms of the woods. While she took her responsibility as one of the Time Menders seriously, nestling the brambles and brush together, minding the whims, the toxins, she had no true means of carrying them to her brethren besides Imogen’s dainty mouth or her own. How naïve and foolish to dream that she could save the world with the tiny bits of flora, rushing back and forth without a system or item to warrant the grand measures of liberation, deliverance, and salvation! The idea had sparked from there, an incitement of cunning and wily demonstrations she wielded from time to time, of snaking materials and perhaps, should a Weaver be willing, to thread together a bag. The nymph wouldn’t be burdened with the notion of leaving her precious items behind, attempting to remember their place for another day when she could snag them, and if anyone would require immediate aid, she’d have the elements and ingredients ready. Alysanne’s visit had sealed the deal; together, they’d procured the necessary components, and she, like an eager fay, combed through the clouds to solidify her wishes and aspirations.

So, as they wound their way around the Basin’s plumes, the lithe sylph peeked and poked her head into various caves, hoping to draw out the one soul she was looking for. Several times she’d been amiss, incapable of finding the necessary, noble beast, narrowing her eyes into darkness to find the grotto stacked with cotton or another delightful specimen used for their craft, but they continued in their pursuits, unyielding, resolute, relentless in their search. Towards one of the last caverns, she drew forth a brilliant whisper, bestowed and permitted it to float through the airy, crisp summer wind, billowing in its vivid allure towards the aperture. “Farenjer?”

@[Farenjer]

His deep vocals echoed back from the icy fissure, an answer, a reply, and her heart was stitched back into regularity, gaze softening to explore further into the Weaver’s retreat, peering into the embankment of cotton and textiles, a world she didn’t quite understand, but was eternally grateful for. She wondered over all the things he could make, the canvases woven, threaded, banners waving, fabrics twisted, knotted, hemmed, sewn, seams and calculations amongst midnight oils and rising suns. The dulcet warmth of her stare pinpointed over the darkened figure and his effervescent markings, the cool reverberations reminding her of lightning, of sieges and exploits, of crusades embarked by storms and stones, and she briefly worried she’d somehow interrupted him. Was he working on another task, and her appearance had disturbed him? Was she distracting him from some important, monumental mission? Surely there were greater, grander things to do for an entire herd, employing him for hours at end? The apprehension, the tribulations, the soft crater of anxiety creeping, crawling, slinking along her bones, were extinguished and absolved almost immediately thereafter, as Farenjer’s sword neatly, friendly, bumped into her own horn. They were welcome guests, invited into his workshop and threshold, partaking in all of the delicacies and tapestries. She returned the gesture with a firm, jovial bump, and Imogen twirled with flax still embedded in her jaws, remembering him from times and seasons past. The regal sylph, with all of her angelic qualities, concocted a dazzling smile, a winsome haze, procuring more hope from the shield of her heart. Spirited, enlightened, sanguine and expectant, her melodic embrace brimmed and unfolded throughout the cavern, airy and divine. “I have a request, if you’re not occupied.” Her eyes dropped to linger upon the ivory kitsune, and the vixen stepped forward, dropping her bundle at the Weaver’s feet, giving forth a few dancing steps before prancing back to her prior position. The Mender bestowed more of her radiance into a gallant explanation, the reasons for their indulgent interlude. “I was hoping with this flax, that you would be able to craft a bag for me?” She paused, breathed in the summer air, and forgot prior misgivings. “I’d like to use one to gather herbs.” Then her gaze pinpointed back to his icy stare, and strength segmented back into resolution, stalwart, intrepid, and steadfast, jubilant grin back in glowing fixtures and features. “And to know your price, of course.”

The Weaver’s acceptance was quick, swift, pledged with sweet promises and no misgivings – and like so many times before, Lena was absorbed, immersed, in the generosity of her Basin brethren. From the outside, they must have looked like monsters, bending and breaking over the shambles of their collected ruins and follies, undertaking violence to match their heartaches, their strife, their pain, but together, they were immeasurable companions and patriots. United amongst the ice, the beauty, the treachery, the grandeur, loyal comrades in the chilling winds and the cloistered glaciers, and no matter what the world said about them; consigned to oblivion, damned, rotten, withered and decayed minions, she knew they weren’t. They held different beliefs, swaying opinions, broken, disheveled theories and raging tempests, scorned and scorched and scorned again, but they always came through for one another. She sang for their wounds, their lacerations, their well beings, the Lord and Lady guarded and slashed, the soldiers practiced and trained, Thieves and Impersonators gathered and entranced, and crafters molded and melded their art into necessary objects. Even when Farenjer gave her no price, no cost, charge, or fee, the little wood nymph, with her honeyed gaze and sylph essence, vowed and assured she’d make it up to him. For all of their heinous efforts, there was so much heart, so much devotion, so much conviction nestled amongst all of them (even on the most jeering or apathetic of faces, she felt it, hovering, pervading), she couldn’t fathom why the world treated them so ghoulishly, as if they spread pestilence from wall to sea. Her gratitude for the ice-marked stag and his talents radiated from her face, clambering and cajoling in their tender nuances and glimmering smiles, prosperous and gilded, harmonious and incandescent. “Thank you.” At his invitation, the two followed, eyes adjusting from sunlight into the rummaging, toiling darkness, fumbling for proper sight, until all that flickered around her were wonderful creations and oeuvres waiting to be designed. Cotton, like floating whims, capricious puffs, were laden against the walls, while hidden tapestries and banners, clandestine, covert, furtive as if unfinished, cloaked and daggered for another day, rested, nestled between stones. She wanted to query, inquire, question for hours on end about each one, about the little bits of cloth and what they stood for, what they were bound to be, about his work and how did he accomplish all of these things – but she saved her curiosity as Imogen sniffed at the many bundles, responding to his prior sentiments with a mellifluous air, singsong wonder, eyes tracing back to the stag’s. “I was hoping for one long strap, so I could wear it around my neck, and perhaps a long flap, to cover the opening.” Light and fae, she established and composed only one more note. “Is there anything I can do to help?”