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]