The sylph’s reverence had never been marked or pinpointed towards one, sole deity – she’d once stared upon the Moon Goddess’ lands and beat a steady rhapsody through the mist, she’d once been consecrated by the Sun God, given the tidings to heal through song and merriment, she’d once listened to the Earth God tell them of a mending spring, a push and shove to ignite assuaging bonds. Through her journeys, her crusades, her sovereigns, perhaps the only one she hadn’t glorified was the Time God; which in itself was nearly impudent, for Lena was a bearer of his gifts, of his trade, courting and scoring lacerations and wounds with the vestige of his wares. She’d wandered through his lands, bent amongst his followers, gestured to the mighty heights and wailing winds, but hadn’t offered him anything but the token vow of strength and valor. The shame, the humiliation, of no immolations, of no benedictions, presided and proffered to the divinity almost burned within his core, and as she marched amongst the hymns and the wondrous beat set by Kyst, the whimsical dance strung together by the GildedBlade, it scorched and flamed all the more. Was she a thankless heathen, driven and devoured by the crisp, keen slash of purpose and motivation, without the appreciation behind it? Had she become another molten villain, taking, absconding, bestowing naught more than gallows and broken trail of dust? Was she a blackhearted fool, turned, twisted, distorted, and annihilated, an icy infidel of the copse maidens and impudent heretics? Mortified, her stare stole over the bits and pieces of reverie, the glowing mushrooms, the dancing streams of wind and clouds, the bountiful heavens whose essence they shared, they cultivated, to hide in the shelter of threats and portended rancor. She listened to the crackling, snapping tunes of the feather plaited into her sable tassels, and her heart throbbed all the more for her inaction, for her idiocy, for her foolhardiness. Perhaps it could all be alleviated here? Could she toss away the inadequacies, the bold, audacious throngs, and serenade their spirit with the admiration he deserved?

Dutifully, the Mender followed in the steps and rhythm of Kyst, breathing in the soothing air, feeling the bounty of serene breeze ruffle against her blossom crown, orchestrating a repose, a symphony, a crescendo to match and accompany Illynx’s performance, to develop a zealous passion in the unfurling inferno. Carefully, intricately, she carved the wayward lapse with a ardent plunge – effervescent, glowing, and tranquil, her aria began its listless climb, growing and blooming in grandeur as her mellifluous harmony crooned and sanctified. It wove and laced, embarked and chased, amidst the clouds, along the sparkling opulence, hoping to carry its immense weight towards the chosen recipient, glimmering, shimmering, in the shades of her benedictions.

“Epochs and ages,
Storms and sages,
Intervals and gales,
Time-spun tales,
The wind and the rain,
The cosmos and the pain
Are reflected in your tenor,
In your spells,
In your measures.”

The femme paused, drew perseverance and begged her aria, her ballad, conveyed all the proper conjectures, all the searing hours and minutes of time, all the admiration and regard she had to offer; and at once, she pressed the hands of moments, stretches, stints, and durations into a fine cloak of art, webbing across the bounty as a priceless artifact, mending any and each snapped segment in her path. The finale, enrapturing, poignant and sweet, ended on a smile and a prayer, flickering into the dusk as her luminescence waned, then eventually dimmed into the remaining grandeur.

“May you continue to bless us
With every surge, every wake,
And every step you take.”

[Lena came in with a song. Next, dancing~]