While Lena could gleam and tuck away a score of secrets, a nuance of sentiments never cast aloft or shared, her deceptive qualities primarily ended there. She didn’t travel through murky paths or daunting trails to abscond arcane, encoded treaties. She didn’t seize, possess, or summon secluded demons, pry pawns away from game boards or sever an unnecessary peon. Not one to shatter the world with charades, masquerades, cloaks and daggers, she normally left the throngs of mischief and clandestine covers to those warranted their surreptitious merits, chieftains of covert affairs and silent, unsung shadows. However, amidst the revelry, the jaunty, jovial pursuits, she sought to amble into each and every possible opportunity of merriment - to embody, to encompass, to ensure she’d somehow bettered herself amongst the exotic refinement and ambling games. A battle of wits, a pursuit of intelligence, a musing amongst the sector of sneaky figures and dodging foils, meant for entertainment, for amusement, coursed along her cranium in winsome delight, and perhaps, much like everything on this fervid evening, she was eager for everyone to be granted their wondrous solace. Whether this was through guile, through duplicity, and mere happenstance, meeting with companions in a dais of war without blood, without ichor, without reeling violence and mutinous gallows, she followed the call of their gilded Thief, wandering amongst the bulrushes and wildflowers, crowned in blooms and smiles. Even Thranduil, who still drew apprehensive vines along her spine, couldn’t dissuade her presence from prevailing into the mist, and the two, Imogen and nymph, dissolved into the arena, stretching towards the setting sun. She soaked in every opportunity for repose, for joviality (because when would they have another chance, when salvation could be struck down moments later?), seizing the whirlwind benedictions and stalwart, beatific ministrations. With her head tucked towards both, the masters of ceremonies and subterfuge, kings of chicanery where she had no diadem, her enlightened shroud reeled back upwards in an effervescent glow. The sylph, perhaps out of place, regarded the realm with the same zealous passion she sculpted, molded, and finessed in life, ardently humming a brilliant tune to acknowledge her pursuits. “I’d be willing to take part!”