Freedom, blessed and bestowed, sparrow stanzas and lilac palisades, simmering and smoldering beneath the blooming tandem of her restless soul, of her seraphic, wishful thinking. Relished and released from the brooding tempest, he followed amidst her thrown rose petals and clover plaiting, so she continued to spin amongst her interwoven threads of lace and ebullience, desperate to show, to capture, the radiance of amity, of affinity, that there was more to life than crouching in the shadows, than spiraling into the hollowed shackles and shells of specious intrigue. She turned, twisted, whirled and twirled towards his golden hide, enlightened, emboldened by the sun so as his frame reached for its rays, it captured every essence of gilded light, lion prowess and gallant antiquity, played vibrant, swinging tunes through her birdsong essence, trilling, warbling, the only siren calls she knew. While she didn’t proffer jagged rocks, sailors screeching for their lives, temptress wings or fractious, foolish crusades, she bestowed the timeless chords of effervescent delight, the aria strands and innocent, minstrel renegades; impish deliverance on her fanciful finesse. Her smiles were tossed amongst the blossoms, nymph glows and sylph bows, so if he meandered into their wake, he could claim each and every one for himself, listen to their glorious crescendo of laughter and merriment, soft, dulcet cadence, sanctuary and liberation amidst their careful, sweetened ambrosia. Exotic, pulsing, pervading, convincing the labors of the earth to spring up in jubilation, ardent, passionate, poised and aloft, lilting and mellifluous, flowing along the lea with benevolent missions and honeyed sentiments, the basking resplendence of sweetheart ruminations, giving, giving, and giving until she couldn’t sacrifice any more but the angelical whims of her soul. The songbird reached and reached for his swindlers’ smirk and devilish flair pressed against the shadows, the shade, where thorns lurked and barbs encompassed, threatened to pierce the void he’d sunk within with all of her opulence and pleasantries until he had to respond to her candor and unearthly contortions, to tear him away from the chiseled expanse of sullen worlds and hidden veneers, to drag him away from the inner sanctum of scars, requiems, and despondency. If he failed to follow, perhaps she’d fall into the claws, into the iniquity, into the mantles, and retrieve him herself.

The notion didn’t need to be extended or developed, no sooner had she thought of reaching into the ashes, into the gloom, did the gilded beast appear, winking, her heart beat matched the humorous artifice, carried away from the bridges of desolation (by her? by whim? by folly? by impulse?), matching the tone of her strides until they were drawn into silence and conclusion. Her smile brandished, providential, cherubic, slid from his handsome features and into the rogue, arched brow of Imogen, as though a challenge hadn’t yet been met, as if to truly sweep him into paragon pedestals and apart, aside, from the brewing incantations, the enchantress of darkness, they had to enact another provocation. The cunning vixen’s chirps turned into silent, devilish snickers, and Lena’s prosperous, juvenile incantations followed, an enticing, alluring, beguiling indulgence blooming, brimming, from her harmonic nature; dipped into sprite grandeurs and fairy crowns. “Perhaps we didn’t grant him a decent-enough chase, Imogen…” The mischievous accompaniment of her gaze settled back upon Roland’s stare, riveted, fixated on the peaceful blue, on the sea scythes, a harmonious, silly laugh thereafter, and a matching wink tossed his way – then, as Imogen blazed through the long grass, ivory tails like a beckoning sail, she tore off into the midst again. Another invitation extended, further and further adrift from the neglected hymns and forgotten daggers, pursuits and lures, appeals and temptations, gliding across the earth in perfect consonance and accord, the very fibers of her nature appealing to the nymph designs and fey elegance, forgoing the blight of sun or the harsh vectors of its dastardly wake. Lena, Mender of Time and swift, intrepid valor set her eyes on the stream’s rivulets and didn’t look back – assured that the Thief’s spirits would accompany and escort; and if not, she’d drag him until he matched her stride for stride.


@[Roland]

Capricious endeavors in the unveiled serenity; she’d forgotten what she’d yearned to say. Sprite silhouettes and dainty snippets of time snatched and stroked with their idle, crooning hands, stalwart ambitions and sylph essences glorified and stoked by the initial bounty of innocence, by the courting influence of fairy midst and mist. Finessed thickets and regal lace, diving and puzzling over the labyrinthine grass and ethereal enigmas, loomed over the sorrows of yesterday and the questions of seasons past, gently coaxed the unyielding prowess of sanguine hearts and valiant innovation, and then she was a restless genesis, grinding and exploiting the swift, tumultuous beat of her billowing enchantment. Like a kindled flame, like a coiled ember, like an untamed ore, he embarked on the twisting wiles of her presaged wickedness, clamoring over the wild fervor of her laughter, of her giggles, of her invigorated premise all of its crisp, divine inclinations; the brisk embrace, the surefire caress, the elegiac kiss of selfless ambition, immersed and flagged in her hope-spun tempest. She skirted in whirlwind patterns, remembered the echoing beat of the glowing caves and the cloistered hold of its haven, of its sepulcher, and allowed the whistling winds to provide the sound, the muse, the noise of their dulcet cadence. Sprung from the lips of flowers and the mouths of blossoms, the nymph gave a harmonious effort to dart away from his swindlers’ pinnacle, racing, dancing, contorting, pouring nimble tracings into radiant indentations, harkening over the summer vestiges with regaling trills, mellifluous rings. Her soul pulsed and her body waltzed; but all for naught – the diabolical coil of his lips from the corner of her eye gave away his ambitions – pressing a heated, bolero swing of his shoulder into her own. The touch didn’t burn, didn’t maul, didn’t tear, but cast a tender ripple along her flesh, curling amongst lustrous bounds and burrowing along her heart; if she blushed, she hoped the brightened hue faded from his sight. It almost failed to matter, no sooner had he reached her side, did he swing away, a pivoting force, an open invitation to another game, hurrying away as if he were now the temptation, the enticement, and she the besotted, deceived damsel, lured into the sunlit oils by gilded snakes and the promise of heaven.

As he turned into the open field, she bit into artifices and contemplation, wove audacity into flourishing, elegiac distortions, rendered one penetrating smile before harpooning her schemes towards Imogen. He wasn’t the only figure with a mind and body to calculate corruptions and chicanery, and hers, while crafty, ruminated in disheveled innocence and sublime carillons, fixtures of the ebullient. In a piercing, simultaneous spring, the ivory beast chirped and chattered, sunk into the vibrant grasses, briskly dashing, charging, sprinting towards the Thief’s feet, batted at his toes, giving and granting him chase while her maiden entwined and composed fanciful hazes. Hoping the combatant would be driven to distraction, the fairy’s eyes narrowed, quick, swift, no minutes or seconds left to hesitation, and proceeded in the opposite direction. An anarchical, insurgent song, galloping and surging towards the babbling brook nearby, breaking bits and pieces of land into separated shards, digging into the embankment and pushing off with her hind, launching over the stream in shades of quiet duplicity. All the while her mind pushed for speed, for rapidity, for immediacy, unleashing silly, whimsical machinations, struggling not to laugh over the rapturous trebles or birdsong contortions. The Mender’s true designs, laced and layered amongst the thistles, the cattails, the flora and fauna sprouting, dancing, and swaying to their disheveled joviality, rushed up to meet her – and in an instantaneous swing, she lowered her frame to the ground, tucked it into the lea, hiding amongst the bulrushes. A pixie compound, her sienna frame was nurtured along the radiant lacework of stems and trunks, tickled once or twice by the soft fronds and butterfly specters, imp eyes scouring the creek’s ridge, escaped and waiting in a momentary sanctuary from the wily, crafty, cunning bandit.

@[Roland]

They fell into a frivolous routine, she laden amongst the rivulet bed, and he searching amongst the dried grass and lavender concoctions, slipping and unfolding into blissful contortions and chicanery finesse. The regal empress of the reeds slid further into their wavering glances and writhing music, listening to the carillon stems trembling in the wind, waiting for a sign, a signal, of her jovial duplicity’s end (for she wasn’t a true master of the fiend barrages; only mischievous, impish enough, to declare courageous fancies and innocent immoralities, the mere snippets of secrets she kept nestled and locked away were her own). Imogen’s matching, roguish regard puttered into the void, lilting and harmonious, accompanying vixen giggles and serene trickery - ”He’s coming!” she dazzled and delighted, and left Lena to remain amongst the curled boughs and fronds amongst a bolstered charade of twitters and chirps. Flanked and covered by her flora minarets, by her vegetation towers, the sylph’s ears flicked back and forth, hoping to grasp he tell-tale signs of his arrival; the twisted beats echoing and bounding off the thistle lanes, perhaps a muttered contemplation of her whereabouts, a distinct, rolling aroma of gilded blackguards. Would there be an opportunity to glide away, crawl into the morsels of lapping water, claim another entrance and exit, slink from the ravenous claws of a golden serpent? Nay, there’d been too much hesitation, too much time spent reflecting on his surprise or lament to find another avenue, and so she was destined to meet her specious fate, blending into the marsh, into the quagmire, pretending to be an eldritch glow in the dimming fixture. Trapped and bound by her own motives and ploys, the capricious beat of her valorous cadence seemed to conjure a bout of quiet, unsung, nervous laughter; feral anticipation and expectation brimming over the surface of her ethereal kingdom. Leaning down into the fragile coppice, the maiden sensed the tremors of Roland’s movement, then, seemed to have lost them altogether, as if his ghostly wake pulled specters and wraiths from their illustrious haze, beckoned them from swamps and bogs to find her sienna shroud. There was an instant where she thought she may have secured victory after all; the rubble ceased, the dregs slowed, and she stoked the fatal swing of curiosity as she raised her cranium from the brook’s edge, only for her gaze to settle upon the springing Thief’s hooves.

Rather than extend a foolish spouting, rather than maul and muddle in disappointment, the fairy spiraled her forelegs inward, curled underneath her chest and amongst her fey nest, brought her serene stare towards the swindler’s features and grinned. Bathed and cloaked in his teasing, she prospered a delightful laugh, even as she was snared, caught, seized, and snatched, the nymph remained not so quickly undone. A sheepish note, she supposed some portion of her should feel the tiniest inkling of shame, glimmered past her earnest platitudes, crinkling in holy, melodious illumination, carried away and off into the lilting glades. “I was just offering you a challenge.” Queen of cattails and streams, she lingered quietly in his enigmatic grace as he mentioned rules of childhood games, years of foundation and traditions she’d glossed over, and poignantly, traced, sketched, her frame closer to the brigand, aiming to bestow what he’d sought, what’d he been owed. Reaching out with her maw, ivories accorded, she intended to draw a feral, ravenous line towards his knee, a quick, swift nip, followed by a tender, dulcet kiss, barely whispering, pressing, revealing, along the virile essence of his skin. Only thereafter did she pull away, a wild smile appearing across her beneficent features, a pixie puissance riddled with pride and delight. “Does that count?” After all, in some intriguing reversal, she’d brought, lured, called and beckoned for the conspirator to come to her, and with Imogen’s encouragement twittering from the embankment, she became quite pleased with her efforts. A soft, mockingly chastising sonnet sprung from her lips, outlined and pulled down towards the thatched stalks and the washed-over burrows, hushed depths brewing ardor and avidity through their mired confession, escaping into the airy escapade. “You know, I’ve been worried about you since we met, and now it seems silly.” Her admission, her revelation, ended on a perilous, sprite wink, emboldened and audacious as nightingale whims and christened tales, for he allowed and permitted all of her blissful divergences; she pieced them altogether, laced and woven, until they painted a dedicated fervor, elegant, harmonious birdsong.

@[Roland]

Feathery whims, light incantations, slight diversions and ethereal entertainment speckled and kindled from the thistle courtyard lingered amidst the cherished ferns and reeds, an unyielding, persevering smile still laced over her lips. Sunlight dazzled and procured her eyes, dabbled elegance and finesse despite her fallen frame curled along the embankment, trapped and ensconced by his amused grin and calm assurance. The fey rose like a spellbound floret, blossoming and unfurling sienna, golden petals, resuming her stately fixture and figure in the stalks and grass, radiant and gleaming as she took in the delicate contortions of the sun. A warm ripple of laughter tickled and teased from the layers of her fairy essence, unearthly, otherworldly possessions, bounding in light, airy waves, knowing full well her challenge had been anything but, and he’d attempted to appease her quick, impulsive efforts. “I aim to please!” An absorption and lacquer of truth beyond so many other statements: for every bountiful step she tread, she selflessly pled for the salvation of her harem, of her brethren, of her companions and friends. Through chilling winds and pouring rain, through spiteful indulgences and ruffian declarations, through the rampant, dire needs of sanctum and sanctuary, she trudged along them all, regaling sweet nothings and bestowing alms. Sometimes, however, she wondered if they were all warranted and wanted, if she pressed too much and received scorn and derision from the wounded patriots and the jagged shards. Perhaps they wished to banish her from their sights, too much glory, too much ebullience, too much blinding their gaze from the blooming truth or the benevolence of nature, longing to extend their stay in the haunting danger of past traumas or brooding, brewing fixtures. And as they conversed, as she played and cajoled with the gilded Roland, maybe she’d driven herself too far, and the old nuance of exploiting, imposing, disturbing pressed down into her core, and the luminous glow washed away for fear of foolishness and shame. If the nymph explained, if the sylph pried, would he retract, flee, regale her with swift nonchalance and cool disposition, glare at her with indifference, or even worse, callousness? Would she lose their quiet, gallant regards? Or would she merely plunge into ineptitude and idiocy, roll and reel amongst the clamors of vacuous, witless pursuits? None of the options seemed appealing, but she refused to blend into cowardice and recant, renounce, her prior follies, forever the brave, valiant, stalwart; perhaps tracing over scars and darkness no one yearned to share. The belle had backed into her own provocation, with too much to lose or gain.

Her lips curled into a thin line, and her stare traced elsewhere, over the buds of new leaves or stems of solid bulrushes, waiting for the earth to either condemn or consume her, swallowed by the Wonderland fronds and a Cheshire grin lurking in the shadows. When none of this occurred, only a long, steady silence as his query still hung and bellowed in her ears, she inhaled a deep, coaxing breath, willing sonnets and stanzas to float and sway in the summer breeze. “You seemed lost, hesitant…detached.” She knew what it felt like, the remorseless bounty of inauspicious desolation scorching and scaling over hides, pricked and punctured into minatory delusions, hiding amongst the knotted gallows and slinking amongst boughs and boundaries; hoping for an opportunity to no longer be considered filth and dregs. But if that wasn’t his story, then she’d meandered, wandered, crossed into other boundaries altogether, and there could be further reasons for his favored solitude and withdrawal from the world (but then – why did he come to the Basin later, as seasons turned into another? What changed his mind? What altered his plans?). Was it due to his occupation, sliding amongst the shadows and veils, piercing sleuth emblems, and raising icy banners under covert, furtive, specious covers, whispering valid secrets to kings and queens? Chased and burdened by circumstances, a cyclical pattern of shaping commitment from a distanced angle, dissolving traces of their portraits and tapestries when he was ready to depart? His words to Caneo recoiled over her memories, the sharpened, piercing notions she could lose him just as easy as everyone else, drifting off into midnight decadence with no words, no goodbyes, joining her other missing companions on the banks of mysteries and misgivings. The notion scalded her skin, murmured heathen raptures in her ears, and seemingly goaded her into another stature of bravery – her steadfast stare shifted back into his blue gaze, and her emboldened words pierced, stung, into the warm vestiges. “Do you still prefer to be alone?” And behind her gaze, the unsaid query enlightened, sparked, incised: Am I a bother?

@[Roland]

A chill rankled and riddled over the top of her spine and settled deep into her bones, cutting and chiseling, aching and gnawing; his first words slashed harsher than she’d realized, stinging at the luminescent glow until it all faded away, gone into sands and sun. The fairy almost immediately regretted asking them, but the layered ambience, the cool ambrosia, of ignorance and remaining unaware would have been a cavernous wound, clawing her out from the insides, drawing poison into her veins. A muffled sliver slipped from her mouth, a wisp, a cloud, a dulcet, silvern, wavering chord followed her stare, sinking into the ground, mauling the weeds and reeds with its resonant restrain. “Oh.” They were startlingly different in their approaches to life: she, who’d been isolated, desolate, secluded and cloistered before the reaches of Helovia, who reached and grasped and held her brethren tight, cherished their presence, their existences in her life, and he, who despite all of his seasons within the Basin, still drifted towards the shadows, cut off from the sanguine charades and the precious amities. And because he didn’t know which he preferred, to amble into veils and chicanery, or to wander into the midst of their dreamlike spirals, she realized just how easily she could lose him. Like so many others before him, he could vanish into the Stygian silence, ruffling no more than a few fronds and boughs, chasing after another scorching blade or one more spun secret, only to be swallowed and consumed by the unknown. The realm would never know he was gone until seasons later, when meetings collided or divided, when faces turned and showed, and there was no handsome, gilded Thief looming in their presence; a Cheshire absence, a Machiavellian abyss, a tiny hole in her heart widened and gaping. The notion turned to bile in her throat, corroded and arched, demanded and tarnished, marched into demonic treads and dejected whims. Was she powerless then, as she’d been for all the others, incapable of keeping him amongst their world, content in their kingdom? Was she ineffective and useless, an impuissant radiance only serving to glow, to smile, to charm and delight, but not when it truly mattered? Perhaps she’d been this way all along, and she’d somehow convinced herself each of her steps, each of her smiles, each of her lofting grins were worth something: a wonderful touch of the soul, a healing endeavor soaked and laced in admiration and aspirations, woven in the strong fibers of hope. Maybe she’d been as inadequate as the day she’d been born, left in fields of lavender and clover for crows. What had she been doing with her time, whittling repose and sculpting reveries, chiming and echoing for raptures and reverence, keening lithe invocations and pixie spells?

The silence stretched and her heart became a chaotic frenzy, stirred and animated into strident, rasping, begging alms, tangled and deluded with all of her disdainful ruminations. Even Imogen failed to utter anything but a single hum, letting it fall flat when naught responded. Eternally ardent, everlastingly brave, the sylph suddenly didn’t know what to do, lost and withered all over again, and it tore her apart to be entrenched in the folds of weakness, of the unknown, of blinded, idiotic idiocy. Her eyes were kept upon the ground, too scared, too humiliated, to see where his stare fixated and resonated, too irked at herself and the discordant echo of humiliation and shame, that when his following statement flickered over the charred void, her regal, downcast head rose sharply, swiftly, quickly. Her gaze fixated on his soft smile, on the gentle, subdued features of warmth, as if his world were not built upon sequestering and unveiling, as if his tongue never uttered a single lie, as if she mattered in the space and scope, the stars and constellations. The tender pieces, the honeyed warmth, of her stare widened into rounded spheres, clinging to something lurking in the mist and labyrinths, holding out for benevolent resolution. The sylph searched for answers without prodding, without poking, but a hallowed contortion pierced at her, and she drove courage through her lungs, through her song, through her ditty, and muffled a somber, hushed query. “Why?” Wasn’t she meaningless, superfluous, another swirl of the wind, another twirl of the air? If she couldn’t do anything, if she couldn’t even maintain a reason for anyone to stay in their haven, in their home, drive them away from the cold lacquer of solitude – why would he want her to remain?

[Huzzah! You get Lena's 300th! ;D @[Roland] ]

Repose distorted and heavy, laden with the puncturing slivers of discontent, of disappointment, lanced through her rigid backbone and gathered, nested in the back of her mind; the conjurer of regret and rue, corroded armor, rusted veneers. In the lingering moments, in the tied down facets of her queries, she felt small, insignificant, witless, and guilty, with no measures of tenacity, with no gleaming charms of inspiration and joviality, spinning her web of infernal fragments and idiotic iniquity. The queen of fairies was no longer in sight, toppled from her paragon pedestal, withering amongst the mortals, dethroned and de-crowned. She’d learned her lesson over secret sharing and prying hands, of bathing in ignorance and lavishing beatific smiles with no justification, no cause, trying to change the world with grins and benevolence. The realm didn’t adhere to her beliefs, didn’t bow down to her tenderness, to her generosity, and kingdoms would forget her warmth, her spells, her enchantments, her songs, because her impact, her presence, her existence, was so readily futile and unimportant. Perhaps she’d been too confident, too arrogant, flying on taffeta wings and strings, attempting to morph coldness into whimsy, possessing perseverance and persistence when no one asked for it, piercing through the callous, the fallen, the forsaken, only to become one of them all over again, adrift on the wind and battered in the boughs. The nymph fought the urge to sink back into the reeds, to crumple into the stream, to escape and flee from the hazardous wake she’d caused, ease her way up the gallows’ steps and pour refinement, harmony, back into her soul; so maybe these harsh, cruel moments could be forgotten, and she hadn’t completely ruined, mauled, and torn tapestries apart. She’d been selfish and inconsiderate, hoping, dreaming, wishing he’d want to stay amongst them forever, down into the reaches of eternity – going against his very nature to wander, to slink, to bury clandestine notations and uproot new cloaks and daggers. Her eyes left his, fearing his reply, mingling with the distant timbers and glades, focusing on shadows and ruins, wondering when she’d become so cruel, so ridiculous, so intertwined with follies and capricious sentiments; grating sibilance drowning out any of her once ardent birdsong. The sylph had battled against beasts, had waged war on at her sovereign’s request, and now, with these remorseful melancholies, knotted the collected shambles at the back of her throat, and waited for his rebuttal.

The songbird inwardly flinched at his echo, returned to staring at the ground, and listened to it bound across the bulrushes, patched and stitched in confusion. But the words thereafter, infused in honesty, sincerity, candor, caused her cranium to jerk back towards him, her fay figure molded into a stunned statue. Maybe she hadn’t a single clue or notion, but she’d always known what her friends meant to her: everything. She cherished the ground they walked on, she followed their plans, she advised and counseled their sentiments, she drew aspirations and laced their dreams together, but, perhaps recklessly, dimly, had never considered they felt the same for her. Like a sacrificial lamb, she committed to their bidding, to their happiness, with all of the power contained within her luminescent soul, empowered through their stalwart strength, through their valorous, intrepid dances. She’d carry the world upon her back if it meant her friends, her loved ones, were safe, secure, and liberated, but she didn’t know how far her connections traced, even to steadfast Roland. He wouldn’t be there without her? Had she truly been so thick? Had she actually become a source, a muse, of someone’s journey? Had she influenced, guided, and impacted him as much as he’d affected her? Her heart hammered in her chest as he crept closer, mouth dipped into a frown, and she began stammering out her apologies, slipping them through the cracks in her imprudence: “I’m sor-“ only to have them cut off by his touch, soft maw bending towards her dished cheek, strong, unyielding, unwavering. The sylph closed her eyes and melted into his caress, grew boneless as the gilded Thief repaired her broken quandaries and shattered essence, relinquished and threw away her infernal insecurities, made her feel like she was worth something. She opened her warm gaze and stoked her own embrace, layered unspoken, dulcet croons and penance into his skin, followed the sleek, golden line of his nape, caressed her mouth down the coiled muscles of his shoulder and murmured her apologies through its virile sinew, thought to hide her head in his chest, conceal the shame cloistered around her grace. She shivered, lilac, lavender tremors, floret blossoms and kindled possession, as he sketched the juncture of her neck, solid, corporeal, tangible and real, not fleeing into shadows or unearthly ramparts, twisting around so her lips found his throat and alighted the lightest, ghostly, sprite invocations, of kisses, offered aria potency around the coiled, curled frames. “I’m a fool.” Not the first, nor the last, time she’d have to utter the proclamations, or embark and ask for his forgiveness; she’d trampled too hard, gleamed too much, ruined diversions, and hurt both of them on her hunt for indulged curiosities. Her eyelashes brushed against his pelt, eyes closing to drown in his wake, breath mingling in his everlasting warmth. “How can I make it up to you?”


@[Roland]

The songbird knew the art of self-sacrifice as if she’d painted every tapestry bearing its fruits and labors, dipped and stained the brushstrokes with her flesh and blood, with her warmth and ichor, with the latent insecurities and crippling apprehension, until each tremulous thread signified her contribution into a holy vow, and she’d be forgiven for something, anything, everything. Like a merchant of transgressions sown into the murk; the misery, the markings and makings of torn doves and infernal harpies, tied and warped and plaited in swooping schemes and haunted boughs. She’d carried the cruel intentions of violence, she’d witnessed the heroic ventures of the world, and she’d been lost to the merciless strikes of the barbaric – for each moment, the Mender believed she’d have to bestow an immolation so the heavens wouldn’t see her for what she truly was. She regretted and calculated, perceived and fought, drove her knees through the arches of peril and sang each beloved chord aloud so the realm could heal from all the wrongs, so her brethren could mend through their slaughtered mires, so the Basin could remain vigilant and strong. The ruminations of forgiveness, of pardons, of singing for absolution ran so deep through her veins that with each thrilling beat of her heart, she paved, carved, whittled, and tended, to tranquil spirits and wounded soldiers, and struggled to remember serenity’s corporeal form. But Roland – king of brigands and idle secrets, enchanted smiles and placating grins, wanted naught from her offer. Lena buried her gaze further into his skin and measured the weight of his acceptance of her: more than just a wielder of notes and stanzas, more than just a bestowal of kind words and effervescent spirit; the notion was overwhelming and she inhaled sharply, poignantly drawing the message through her mind. Without something to justify her behavior, because she’d performed poorly and it showed all through the pages of their deviated script, the nymph was lost, sunken into his depths and clattering haphazardly along the gilded ruse. Adamant and soft, coaxing all of these strange wiles into her head (worth something, not worthless), she etched herself closer to his gallant figure, pressed and sculpted her frame in all of the empty, fragmented spaces, left naught untouched as she craved the truth through his statements and blind faith in her tenacious will. Her maw rustled through the slender fragments of his chestnut locks, a thank you for his beliefs, grazed over the soft skin of his cheek, appreciation for his confidence in her steadfast invocations (even if they were tedious and foolhardy), and followed a fervent, ardent trail, kissing down the elongated structure of his neck because she wanted to.

When he pulled away, dipped his head to gather and gaze into her expression, she answered with a silent reverie, the gentle, dulcet cadence of her eyes, seemingly amused by something gathered behind their walls, the beginnings of another ruffian glow; an act for the future. She’d never be without worry, a bird always fretted about one thing or another; time’s motions simmering away at the juncture of peace, or the iniquitous air floating through the winds, the augured world and how whenever it prospered repose, chaos shortly followed, how eventually empires would need her sacrificial alms and arms again and she’d be at the ready, but she let the light, crisp summer breeze carry it off of her shoulders for now. The fairy, because once a fey, always a fey (even when their confidence waned and the pixie dust faltered in tones of the nonbelievers), raised her head, drove a stubborn line through her jaw, and pretended to court impishness again, refusing to take no for an answer. “Then I shall have to surprise you one day.” Her gaze narrowed, and Imogen chirped in mischievous delight, encouraging the turn from downtrodden into raptured enchantress, and Lena extended another wink, a generous grin. “When you least suspect it!” She softened thereafter, back into the whirls of humility and grandeur, where the moral turns crooned silken banners and charitable friendships, where she wondered what she’d ever done to deserve Roland and all of his benevolence. “You’re too kind – but thank you.” And perhaps, over time, she’d allow herself to believe all of his statements, let them settle, ghost, coast, amidst her mind until they sounded true.

@[Roland]

Dragged and drenched through the quagmire, a vicious, zealous tangle, a malicious warren, of her own silly delusions and capricious faults, burned and scalded by her own foolish endeavors and flaws, and then quickly, tenderly, assuaged by the Thief (because she’d learned titles didn’t dictate personalities; he’d been the most gentle and beloved of brigands), left her reeling, listless, languid, but content. Soaked in his touch, in his caress, forgiven for her foibles, pardoned and absolved of her limitations, the fairy was permitted to embrace and enjoy the foundation, the roots, of security and havens once more – even as one insecurity slipped into another and she’d been terribly lost in the laments and requiems of the future – he picked up all of her fervent, ardent shards and dusted them off with a grin, ensured they’d never been truly broken. It’d be uncomplicated, effortless, facile, and simple, to merely sink into his existence and feed off of his strength, his diligence, his kindness and compassion, but when he pulled away, she did too, a bright, luminescent spark renewed and pulsing, beating, with the vivacity of unrelenting hearts. The fairy held no intentions, no motivations, of consuming his generosity and claiming it as her own, a succubus, a syphon of the serene; too long had she lived in her own trances and reveries, walked through fire, stood through storms, basked in the glow of her perseverance, and she’d do it all over again, an embedded, entrenched pillar, columns of strength and fortitude. But every ounce of her was grateful, obliged, indebted to his care and assuaging, for all the assurances, her confidence waned and glimmered, emboldened then dimmed, and he’d built a careful wall, threw her a ladder, to climb and siege against. Perhaps one day he’d flee the confines of the Basin, clawed and veiled by shadows, by wicked deceit, by specious regard and the daggered cloaks of iniquitous men, but she’d find him again, race through the sun’s rays and search amongst the riotous heavens until he’d been returned to them, to her. Trust and devotion, adherence and allegiance, dedication and constancy, carved nuances and collected bottles of the brilliant chords of her companions, her friends, her allies, her loved ones, gathered and encouraged her through every thorny, brambled path, and she’d always provide the same for them; tranquil truth, reposed benedictions, honored convictions. Her gaze bounded over his movements, the charismatic wink, the lowered stare, the unbent, swindling decree of promises, and though she’d never imagine he couldn’t keep covenants and augurs, she ducked and tilted her head beneath his, fixing one honeyed eye upon his icy blue one. “If you ever need me, I’ll be right beside you.”

Harmonic vocals were followed by a ruffian smile, charming, magnetic, beguiling, aiming to swindle away his doubts and misgivings. Her pledge was a guarantee, signed and penned by her strength, by her diligence, by her ever-growing, ever-reaching, ever-persistent tenacity, a bloom of adversity and stubbornness – Imogen chirped her own staunch vow across the creek and marsh, united creatures in steadfast, valorous pursuits. Indulging in cheeky, coy smiles thereafter, she winked and brushed her maw along his brow, the softest kiss, a dulcet stroke, a satin caress, an innocent gift of reassurance, passing over the tragic threads and the days of come what may, glancing over the horizon and laughing through the last of summer’s fine, sultry air. “Though right now, I require someone to race back to the Basin with.” She shrugged, narrowed her gaze as if he was the only option, then gave him one final wink, before swiftly churning across the reeds, leaping over the brook, and glancing back behind her to see if he intended to follow. After, like a careening fey, like an exotic laurel brought to life, like a petal in the wind and a thrown seraph tossed back into lavender, into candied fields, into clover and divine interventions, she and her fox chased the horizon, the stars, the auroras, forever enlightened, enchanted by golden knights clad in pirate armor.

@[Roland]