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]