The waiting time was harsh, for more than once she kindled and rekindled the altering calamity bolstered and harpooned into her soul: reality struck, for no matter how many times she plucked the strings of divinity or courted the hands of virtue, she was still as mercenary as the rest of the world. A few scandalous moments struck where she considered turning back, offering her immolations and prayers, then leaving them on the doorstep, to become a shrinking idol in the deity’s courtyard, but then his appearance blinded her, scorched her eyes, magnified the fluttering heart in her chest, and it was too late to back away from the challenge she’d given herself. She closed her gaze to the unwinding sun, felt unworthy over and over again in his presence, asking, yearning, bidding for something when she’d already received his blessing before – maybe it was too much, and he wouldn’t listen to her pleas. Perhaps he would shun her away, force her into the miserable brine or drop her off the clouds, and she kept bowing, for fear, for apprehension, for all the pathetic nuances circling around her mind. Was it a mistake, to want to cherish and protect one’s herd, to grasp hold of ways to touch, to taste, to relish, the sullen vows of violence, to ensure another didn’t have to do the same? He snorted and she flinched, suddenly losing her courage in the tiding of minutes, pondering if she were to become the shaking, unnerved leaf, cast off into the wind and forced to find something else to hold onto. Instead of being tossed amongst the gallows, however, he spoke, rigid, impertinent towards her choices, and she almost laughed, bemused by the notion of her fighting and healing for the Throat instead of the treacherous, beautiful Basin. Her heart had long since been enticed by icicles and aurora skylines, glacial palisades and snowflake interludes; seduced and spellbound, she was as much a chiseled portion of the Basin as the soldiers, the sleuths, the emissaries. In some fashion, in some sway, the idea, the sentiment, appeared to heighten, brew, blossom her bravery once more, and she lifted her head towards the wonder of the God, and smiled. He’d given her another thing, pluck, daring, audacity, the mighty roar of a building inferno, and she suddenly trusted her choice, her decision. The nymph would likely forever be beholden for his zealous, ardent tides, the brilliant conflagration, the bursting defiance; it offered intrepidity when she thought it lost. She too could grow like a fire, twisting and gilded, effervescent and coiled, a spring, a blaze.

“Your sister is probably correct.” She bowed once more, for the sylph knew the claws of selfishness, felt it claw down her throat and over her lungs, but pressed on in the lilt, the harmony, of her aria, beckoning for the salutations of valor to prick and scald her spine as she raised her sienna gaze back upon the enduring flame. “I come to you because I know of your strength, of your abilities. You’ve granted me a capacity to heal my herd, my friends, my allies, and for that, I’ll be eternally grateful.” She paused, reflecting in her absolution, in her gift, to the masses. Even while she carried his brother’s powers of time, even while she wove strands of his feathers in her mane and listened to them sizzle, crack, and spark, she would always be indebted, appreciate, of her first ability to mend, given and bestowed upon by the holy being before her. “Now, I wish to wield it to protect others. Is there any way to alter my songs to also brandish fire?” One magic to mend, and another one magic to seize, possess, and violate, all with tunes, tones, and melody.


[Turning in Lena’s VOTG pass to receive her requested magic:
Active Magic :: [Fire | The ability to sing and summon fire. Can injure others/set surroundings aflame. Would have to use different tones from her healing songs. ]

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