Death, rancor, and all the darker edges of life failed to consume and devour her inner workings, the lacings and plaiting of her finer edges; the Mender has always coveted, hoped, cherished, longed, and yearned for particles of jubilation instead of unwavering grief or laborious anguish, the maddening consumption of violence and villainy. The sylph had no desire to waste it on the timeless passages of what if and what could be, for once sanctioning the moment into her heedless desires and rampant ecstasy – joy, wild and effervescent, brimmed and brewed from her eternal cup of elation, spilling over the boundaries of her soul until she was seemingly lit on its wondrous fire. The midst, the mist, the surroundings beckoned, and she was coaxed, a moth to a flame, a spirit to a kindred artifact, into the labyrinthine concoctions of their unearthly void. Made angelic by the hymns bursting from her lungs, from her softened mouth, from her eager smile, her petal soft footsteps lingered over the wispy threshold as a nymph, as a laurel, as a sienna plume in the midnight oil. Blossoms and blooms, gathered from the few vestiges of unwavering flowers still remaining, held aloft in a circlet, a crown, along her ears, dangling and brushing over her brow in a dainty whirl and twirl of sprite, fairy, and pixie essence. Like a child of the trees, of the wood, of the flourishing copse and all of its beatific riches, she slipped into the boundaries of gods and goddesses as a reverent being, dancing a fine tune to the ease, to the sway, to the rhapsody of her otherworldly possessions. She sang and she hummed, she breathed radiance, she craved idle musings, the beckoning summons of others, to relish, to enjoy, to taste, the token bits levity, zest, and passion had to offer. Eyes aglow, body enlightened, she prayed into the balm and alms of benedictions and invocations, asking, begging, pleading, for an endless, ardent evening filled with bliss, with enchantment, with revelry, and not the unspoken threats gathering in the shadowed boundaries.

They followed the dainty precipice, the divine raptures, until they were soaked in its wild candor, another being chased and bitten by the beatific. Summoned and taken for the joviality, the amusement, the festivity, she slid into the beaded, glowing world, undimmed and undaunted by the steady glow of their amble bliss. Illynx was spotted nearby, a golden presence amongst the shadowed oils and twilight ambience – though the aurora’s horizon would have been perfection for the backdrop, for the scenery, of their vivid dances and glorified hallelujahs, the world was beautiful here too – and she moved towards the Lady, apparent and vivid in her floret coronet, in her undaunted, unmoving grin. “Evening!” Bold and valorous, she stole glances towards the opening wings, pondering and wondering how many were to follow the sketches of their patterns and invitations, how many would be emboldened by the heights and fanciful folds, the crisp, autumn enlightenment of a Gods’ celebration and the wondrous things in between.