Ordinarily, her role, her purpose, was to heal, to mend, and to soothe the aches, the pains, and the wounds of her comrades. The Songbird’s brethren were to be restored, given life anew, and her kind, benevolent heart strived to patch together their shattered alms and agonizing ailments. The only times she’d ever sought or thought to cross over into the other portions of vigilance, where violence rang and villainy drummed and her soul broke into colliding pieces, was when war beat against their minds. The memories were not content ones, were not happy ones, were not made of chivalrous knighthood or revived sanctums – because even when she’d done well, even when she’d stabbed and fought and bit and tore, all she felt afterwards was hollow.

But now, the world was changing, rapid and distorted, convoluted and chaotic all over again. A new pestilence grappled and snared at their heels, a murderer ran rampant, tensions, acrimony, and hostilities coursed through veins, and the nymph’s convictions had been sparked and ignited all over again; for what healer, what Mender, would leave themselves weak and diminished, when their herd needed them the most? She couldn’t be a fault, a flaw, a defect, when the lines of battle were crossed. She couldn’t be a nuisance, a sliver of ineptitude, when the trumpets blared and warriors charged. No matter how bitter, how empty, how rancorous the edges of crusades crushed her sentiments, she had to train, had to hone, had to immerse herself back into the thunderous thicket in order to be as strong, as durable, as tough and potent as the rest of her herd. A little barb choked, smothered, haunted, and slighted her thoughts as she wandered across the Basin’s Birdsong grass and near the warm, coiling fumes of the springs; if she had done this sooner, could she have alleviated Ode’s death?

She didn’t even know her opponent, other than the name given to her: Panzram. They’d seemingly never met, perhaps other than a recent herd meeting, and her mind was wholly occupied by the sensation of battle, by the notion that she was drowning herself further into wake and terror (to come out stronger, to come out fiercer) that her thoughts spiraled back in a series of questions. Was this individual massive, potent, a behemoth amongst the caves? Were they small, swift, cunning and wily? Did they have more experience than her, perhaps be willing to share their wisdom of frays and duels as they marched to the same tune? The panic drove her onward, further and further until she settled amidst the northern portion of the valley, and nerves ate her core. Her legs maneuvered back and forth in an anxious pace, and Imogen attempted to soothe her companion with a few short chirps (for the kitsune was already well prepared, fire churning in her tail, coiling amidst her mouth, ready to spring, ready to fight). The Mender tried to focus, tried to harness all her faculties, all her capabilities, and render them prepared and composed, setting them adrift on the breeze as she called for her opponent.

[Birdsong spar for Basin: Lena vs. @[Panzram].
Midday. Set towards the northern portion of the Basin, a few caves in the distance, hot springs are nearby. Crunchy grass. No snow.

0/3 posts. 519 words.
Notes: Just the introduction! ^_^ You are free to make the first move or continue the introductions. I’m excited!]