Nestled in Frostfall’s ornamentation, the Time Mender and present company ambled through the snowy vestiges, listening, mulling, gently prying words from the babe’s tongue: grass, and then, gone. The final token of shambles, of nothingness, of drifting, juvenile delusions and fiend embraces, was a beleaguering admission, for while she’d taken him from heathens and pestilence, he’d also been taken from his family. The colt, like so many of them before, had been rushed into the wilderness before given opportunity, given chance, to furnish wisdom, employ strength, drift amongst the gallows and the shrines, piece together the collection, the artifacts, of their future compositions. He’d been stoked for violence at a tender age, and as she glanced upon him, young, fragile, delicate, she was saddened he’d been absconded into the granules of rage, of villainy, of abhorrence at such a tremulous time: what did he know, other than the rush of ire, the spit of exasperation, the keen, sharp edges of knives and swords? The thoughts pricked a little deeper, bled into her mind, images and memories of days spent beneath the wooden boughs, counting down the hours, the minutes, the seconds, before escape, or the illustrious banners floating in the distance, war songs, crusade hymns, bloodshed beats wrapping and warping the fabric of the evening sky; they’d all been melded, molded, or groomed into some strange anomalies, and she’d buffeted against it too many times, then folded under the pressure. The nymph knew what it was like to fight, fight, and fight against something unseen, a pulling, a tugging, a thread snapping and snagging, until no matter how determined, how tenacious, one still ended up embracing the overwhelming lilt of bravery, bravado, and barbarity. She closed her eyes, blinked hard, scattered the thoughts away, attempted to marvel at the boy’s survival, and furrowed her brow at how to ensure he continued – taught something beyond the wiles of relentless ferocity or immoral capriciousness (and whether or not the aurora peaks would provide him such things; it was his choice, not hers). As they strolled, he bumped, collided, she waltzed, slowed, ensured her strong, stalwart form bent towards his, eyeing the closeness of the hot springs, ceasing movements and motions when they reached the brimming, foaming warmth. For a few moments, she merely dug into the patchwork of snow and rime, chiseled away at the frost beneath her feet, seeking out a few nimble blades of grass for him to try and devour at his leisure, calmly, carefully, stoking a small flame with her singsong tunes. “You could stay within the Basin, if you’d like.” No force, no compulsion, no coercion; the child had seen, felt, enough already: this decision to stay amongst a herd, a brethren, would be of his own volition.