Birdsong always merited its just rewards, its long-lasting wait for the burdens of Frostfall to crack, to chisel, to fly away into the expanse of merry sparrows and emboldened sunshine, drenching the world with warmth and delight. From gilded ramparts and sodden rainfalls came verdant greenery, arrived tiny bulbs, miniscule, delightful blossoms, little shoots gathering the heartfelt nutrients of spring’s wholesome sonnets. As nymph and kitsune basked in the serenity, in the tranquility, their hearts’ drank and indulged in copse reveries and glade raptures, witnesses to blades and boughs reimagined: tapestries, portraits, compositions of green, of emerald, brightened into luminescent shades. They picked and nestled amongst the beds of roots and moss, they sidled through the tundra forest, the linings of pine and fir, they whistled and caroled amidst the mass of jasmine follies and carnation hopes, tried to forget the woes of deaths, of miseries, and settled across the expanse with a full heart and stalwart endeavors. Lena identified the ample herbs discovered long ago: the rich, sometimes blighted bearberry, the assisting pasque flower, the blades of the diamond-leaf willow, the Labrador tea after she’d explored the ground for further bits and pieces. Imogen, ever the buoyant patriot, laced them amidst her widened mouth (bravely refused to broil them into ash and flames), and followed her sienna mistress as they drifted and traversed, gypsies of the north. The latter smiled, perhaps for the first time in long, beaten segments of time and conjectures, examined and scrutinized the frond and needled bundle, questioned the only other occupant. “Do you think it’s enough?” The ivory vixen was inclined to agree, chirped through her mouthful of herbs, dancing lightly ahead of the Time Mender as she hastened a light aria of laughter, followed the pale beast on their rose-lined path and mission.

They traversed down a familiar passage, crossed their borders and angled southward, past the Frozen Arch and all of its mysterious corridors, down amidst the melting snowfall, and swinging westbound towards the well-known World’s Edge. Though years and seasons collided and corroded, healed and assuaged, the sylph still felt a restless prickle down the fixture of her spine: maybe out of fear, maybe out of humiliation, maybe out of shame for all the actions scalded and concocted there, because she’d fed the fuel and fire with her own anger, because they’d all had brutal, damaged, scarred hands and the perilous, flagging efforts of her kin only masked the hurt they’d withstood ages before. As they rustled and rambled into the mist, into the murk, she listened to the rolling sea crashing against the rocks, she pictured the disastrous outcrops, the beautiful sprawl of merciless steel and moonlit conspiracies, slowed as the chimes of memories echoed, scrawled, ghosted against her senses. Poltergeists of the past: a glass wall deteriorating, spotted Lords and his daughter leaping amongst warrens, mighty warriors sacrificing hearts and minds, control spiraling out of their dignified throngs. A billowing breath cascaded from her follies, and Imogen exalted her concern with an embellished snort; Lena shook her head and continued onward, slinking amidst shadows and sunlight, returning to old elements, enveloped in forest grasps and timber clutches. All at once, before she could be folded back into the murk, into the disastrous claims and ruined glimpses, into haunted spells (for this was to be a jubilant affair, not a crusade back into unrelenting tales), she bellowed a charitable, honey-spun beckoning on their fringes, along their borders: striving to bear gifts instead of demons.

[Lena comes with herbs from the Basin to give to the Edge! ^_^]

They’re not tormented or anguished for long on the borders of an old world she used to cherish, used to protect, for no sooner had she bid welcome and salutations did one arrive in the form of a familiar, beloved friend. How oddly time had shorn and frayed the edges of assaults and defeats, carried and caressed, finessed and cradled the promises of renewal and resurgences. Not many seasons ago she wouldn’t have been permitted to wander into these scenic halls and indulge in the sea air she’d once loved so much, and now, she was received with amiability and beneficence. Had they all grown so much? The outcry was a wondrous beam of hope, the fluttering of wings, quite grown since she’d seen them last, and the inky, ivory splashed plumes a way to nurture enlightened smiles and unearthly grins. While Hemlock hooted and trumpeted, played with Imogen who chittered, chattered and batted at him in return, Lena’s heart opened to the delight of Alysanne’s arrival, thrusting away the poltergeists and lingering damnations. Welcomed, despite everything that had occurred there (wars, battles, sieges, lives lost, children stolen, bleating for their mothers), received and greeted by its nurturing arms. Her voice bordered on the serene, on the majestic, on the tranquil, for all the niceties expressed through the Pegasus’ warmth and deliverance, because she was just as thrilled, just as ebullient, to see the pair. “Alysanne! I’m so happy to see you! Have you and Hemlock been well?” Her companion’s keen observations landed upon the carefully kept herbs in Imogen’s maw, and the Time Mender grinned all the more for the astute perusal (noted the ruminations of a garden, for it sounded absolutely divine and heavenly). “We brought some herbs from the Basin. I’m sure some look familiar to you?” Before she could gesture towards the specific plants locked in the vixen’s jaws, another settled before them, companion and equine, and it took her a few moments to rekindle the recognition – the femme with a dragon, not altogether poised, careening through the sky when they’d wandered from the hilltops of ice and snow, trying to connect, trying to establish, a peaceful interlude. All beneficence and nightingale song, the nymph delighted in the draconic figure, now much more composed, much more capable, and the dove settling in whimsical coos. If Resplendence felt any terror or apprehension from her appearance, the sylph tried her best to assuage the sentiments – regal, composed, elegant and refined, bubbling, blossoming ebullience. “Oh! I remember you – from when we offered a truce between the Edge and the Basin. But, I’ll reintroduce myself! Lena, Time Mender of the Basin, and my companion, Imogen.” She paused, glancing skyward to the agile lizard, brandishing a tiny grin. “I’m glad to see your bonded has grown.” Then she winked, as if sharing in a delightful joke (or perhaps pretending the dragon hadn’t tried to scorch Roland once upon a time), continuing the conversation, delving into curiosity and exploits. “I suppose these plants will be for your garden. What a remarkable thing to have in your herd! Was it your idea?”

The presence of friends was a breath of fresh air, curling and coiling in a clean, serene poignancy – here, there were no threats, no murders, no ruin or devastation, just the magnificent essence of affability, of ebullience, of faith and conviction. The Songbird didn’t press the matters of the world controlling, dictating, conspiring against their movements and motions, and caved into the feeling repose and relaxation, sighing, breathing, into the measures and comfort of goodwill. Alysanne’s gestures and thoughts were harmonious, strung together on pleasantries and fortune, the snatches and vestiges of Birdsong and the beauty of the Basin; her smile widened, brightened, and the nightingale was herself all over again before beastly contortions or avaricious claws: honey-spun, sugared, candied. Harmonious vocals, strung together on pieces of taffeta, of silk, of carillon bells and chimes, floated easily through the breeze, alive and renewed. “We’re well! The Basin is thriving once again.” For Imogen’s part, she enjoyed and tumbled about the forest undergrowth, batting towards Hemlock’s long feathers (keeping one eye upon Valiance, because she hadn’t forgotten the lizard’s flight towards Roland either).

The lithe nymph, the sienna sylph, not to leave out the sober, solemn Resplendence, directed her attention upon the whispering femme, wondering if she’d dove a bit too far in her conversation. The femme seemed hesitant, reluctant, gazing at the ground, at the roots and stems and leaves, condemning her soul to another world, another place, and Lena’s brows furrowed for a moment in concern. She arched one brow towards Alysanne in silent, vibrant questioning, and then stoked her calm, ebullient pieces back amidst the softer belle. Her grin wove into kinder, gentler flames, not pressing, not coaxing, but a mere enticement of benevolence, consideration, and affection – the swallow couldn’t possibly know the reasons for her timid behavior, but she certainly didn’t want to be the cause. The garden could be a wondrous conversation, and the Mender was certainly intrigued by the intricacies and techniques required to ensure it remained whole, alive, regrown year-by-year, season-by-season. Perhaps Resplendence was remarkably clever, capable of sustaining life for lengthy periods of time (and wouldn’t they all be blessed to hold such a talent), and Lena longed to compliment the sentiments. Her musings sang in courteous, dulcet riches, smooth and eager, musical and alluring. “It seems like a brilliant notion! What do you grow?” The flames of her curiosity, stoked and kindled, yearned to see, to witness, to examine the mentioned flowerbeds, with its enriched soil, with its vibrant greenery, with its shades of hope, but also didn’t want to invite herself or drag the femme into further regret and penance. Perhaps she could be satisfied by description alone, and imagine the shrubs, the herbs, and the blossoms, springing forth and opening up to the sunlight.

@[Alysanne] @[Resplendence]

Her concern unfolded in soft, dulcet waves, worried and troubled that she perhaps had pressed too far into Resplendence’s comfort, became too bold, too enamored with friendship, with amiable spirits, that she’d forgotten what it was like to be shy, to be tucked too far into one’s self. The Songbird had once drifted beneath canopies and boughs, shunned and disregarded, forsaken and isolated, and never wished those circumstances upon another being. She yearned to pull, to tug, to weave the other femme out of the miseries, out of the melancholies, of her own flesh and mind, but had no ability or right to do so. It had to be Resplendence who wanted to alter, who wanted to change, who wanted to morph from caterpillar and cocoon to beautiful, gracious butterfly, and despite the anxious exterior, despite the pricking of uncomfortable granules, the nightingale still remained, a glowing beacon of serenity and beneficence. Gently, quietly, she extended her nuptials and grandeur into the enchantment of the thicket and cliffsides, murmuring a melodious, mellifluous croon down into the floor, where it peeked and tumbled in golden, gilded ferns and rapacious, hungry violets, beautiful and exuberant. Meant to soothe, meant to radiate peace, happiness, calm compositions and florid, heartfelt wishes, it danced and twirled, delighted and amused, diverted and conjured tranquility; the swallow grinned and winked towards Alysanne as she offered feathers and wings in hand, in comfort, and the Mender drummed reassurance down into the interludes of fronds and friends. Then Resplendence offered what she’d hoped to hear all along, an invitation, a summoning, to the beloved garden, to a grove of herbs and wildlife, to serenity and versatility, and the maiden of the Basin hoped somehow, someway, the pale femme’s pride would rise beside the mounds of dirt and soil, that she could declare satisfaction and achievement at such an undertaking. The grateful, whimsical entity listened, smiled, and embarked into graceful, grateful finesses, obliged and appreciative of the moments given, of instances to be cherished and stored. Lowering her cranium in beholden glows, she delivered an elegant, softened aria, bending and granting reposeful diatribes. “I would love to, if you don’t mind.” She gestured to Imogen, who scampered and chirped alongside, still holding onto the precious herbs from rime and glaciers. It’d be an opportunity to explore what other minds could come up with, what could be shared amongst the Basin whims, what she could embody in her own homeland to ensure their safety; a gift she wouldn’t take for granted.

@[Alysanne] @[Resplendence]

Infinitely curious, brought up beneath boughs and trees to listen, to discover, to nestle and gather information, the sylph hastened the opportunity extended towards her, became a willing follower towards the heralded garden, draping a smile to each individual. She tried not to forge a steady gaze on the pulsing mist or flick an ear towards the waves crashing into rocks and cliff sides, allowed the memory to burn away as often images do; become little holes to pick apart later. Grateful and obliged, she dipped her head towards the destination, eyes widening, brightening, at the speculative trappings of soil, marvelous, idyllic, chaste and quaint. She loved every bit of it, from the burrowed herbs, neatly lined, to the promise of a greenhouse along the sides; and quirked just a hint of a brow as she noted a trace of poisons within the bed, sleeping soundly with curatives. An impish curve to her lips broadened and expanded with a minute glance towards Alysanne, then a more curious gaze set upon Resplendence, because while the other femme didn’t appear to be one who indulged in toxins or venoms, Lena was elated, delighted, pleased to see there was bite beneath the layers of innocence. Saying nothing of it, raising her head in appreciative gestures, she traced her grin back towards the dun beneath the canopies, draped and lavished in ebullience, in contentment. “What a lovely garden! I’m so thankful you allowed me to see it.” Quickly thereafter, she motioned to Imogen, who chirruped with her mouth full of greenery, skipping over and laying them neatly towards a dry spot in the plot, then stepping back so the wares may be inspected. Lena ran her stare over and over along the lawn, speculating if one day she would be able to administer her own amongst the snowy abyss, if it could survive the constant threat of winter, the enduring taste of Siberia, or if it was already damned before it began its first sprouting. A triumphant, bolder, persistent side of her won out over the claim, however, and firmly intended to ask her sovereigns if she could have a little piece to muse and fuss over. Her aria returned, fresh, mellifluous, bright and charming. “Truly, thank you again. You’ve lent me a lot of ideas.”

@[Alysanne] @[Resplendence]

Guidance and support lifted their wings and spread their plumes, her heart soaring on the rays of delicacy and merit, indulging in warm smiles and sunny dispositions, embarking down the paths lined with edges, stones, and gardens – her voice filtered over the grandeur, swinging along the opulence, emboldened, hastening the tunes of sagacity and wisdom. Her maw touched upon each bestowed plant, singing their credence and benedictions, the first, lined with berries, bore its significant dubbing. “This is bearberry – only use the leaves for any medicinal purposes. They’re said to help with any urinary problems.” The nymph’s stare dropped towards the next, hovering diligently over a group of violet florets, bloomed beneath the Siberian horizon. “The pasque flower has several known remedies, from cataracts, nerves, depression, to asthma, earaches, and even some skin infections.” The third reigned as a willow, soft and limber, lithe, leaves serrated, honed like keen blades, Imogen chirping at its vital contents and towards the flying lizard digging holes. “The diamond-leaf willow contains a large amount of vitamins and nutrients, perhaps even richer than some fruits.” She motioned towards the last, a bundle of evergreen fronds tied and tethered together with delicate, ivory blossoms. “The Labrador tea can be used for skin complaints and colds.” Finally, her head rose back to join the others, winking at Alysanne again, for she so enjoyed her guidance, her company, her easygoing, gentle nature, and continuing to delight in Resplendence’s presence, a keeper of gardens, secrets, and intriguing surprises. “Just be careful with dosages, of course. Sometimes we can have too much of a good thing.” Herein she laughed, blending aria whims with specious, furtive runes, because she’d seen the poisons lingering along the threshold, because they’d fought skirmishes too, because some portion of their lives would always be a fleeting nuance of fairy tales, skimmed and scorned, blighted down into venomous indulgences and frayed ends of bedlam. The sylph’s stare roamed from creature to creature, passing a soft breath between her teeth and tongue, as if a great burden had been lifted, dusting away all the haunting lullabies on one gust of morality. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

@[Alysanne] @[Resplendence]