Bliss and contentment slipped away from her, quiet, hushed, and muted. She may not have noticed the soundless spiral of disenchantment had her scars not snagged against once ethereal movement, had her essence not poured grace and elegance but her body couldn’t conform, had the world not managed to display wickedness and death at every turn. A fairytale interrupted by thorns and brambles, courted in locks and chains, mired in demise and deceit, punctured by the nuance, the tragedy, the curse, that her actions were nearly meaningless. At times, they were even selfish, hoarding notions and ideas tangling and twisting beloved friends and companions, and only when she threw herself in the wiles and ire of danger could she save them from her mistakes. She’d wanted to do more, so much more - carve a niche into other factions, protect and preserve her kin, sculpt vigilance and perseverance, reign over potency, and not be a forgotten, unnecessary whim. The Mender had wandered amidst her frozen empire, her glacial fortress, with not a single demonstration of purpose other than smiles, other than benevolence, other than effervescence, and even now, she could sense it fading, colliding, brittle and broken. The femme had stood amongst caverns as a timepiece, a recollection, a promise of elation, when banished souls had craved mist and oceans instead of mountainsides, carrying satchels of daydreams and convictions. When the chilling winds called for her, she followed its sirens, its laments, its dirges and requiems, set them to rights through arias and instances; but incapable of naught more, was placed aside and forgotten in the next moment. A relic, an artifact, a sanctuary and sanctum barely used. Every moment she thought herself necessary and capable, she raced to the front, and then found junctures thereafter were agonizing decrees of ineptitude. She stared at fallen soldiers and still, prone figures, died and massacred, completely, utterly incapable. She prayed to the Sun God’s shrine, yearned to find a way to conquer demons and foes, and he wanted her kissed and cloaked in fire; a worthy punishment for an unworthy belle. She’d blazed with fervency, with passion, with ardency and refinement, and when hope took a sword into its heart, she could feel hers begin to tatter and tear.

The Songbird didn’t sing. The nightingale didn’t warble. The nymph didn’t dance.

There was barely a sound from the once-dreamer, drifting, wayfaring, and wandering from the beaches of the Endless Blue. The salt and sand and sea had soothed and assuaged the burns she couldn’t mend on her own, but she’d spent hours away from their gallant caresses and fleeting touches, stepping lightly, stumbling, fumbling, heading towards the Veins of the Gods. But the agony had returned, and the pink, raw marks blistered and scorched, until she felt she could move no farther (and god, when had that ever occurred; when her determination faltered at the hint, at the menace and malice of misery?). Unescorted, because she couldn’t ask Roland to attend to her again, not after the chaotic shambles of her fulfilled crusade endangered him so fully (because of her defiance in the eyes, in the gaze, of an antlered beast), her primrose path was seared and distorted, her breathless motions a grinding reminder of her stupidity. Imogen’s constant coos and trills did naught to solve the situation, so the vixen too grew silent and despondent, following her companion’s fall from opulence.

As the Ancient Rotunda unfolded before her sights, the sylph could barely process its magnificence: too many colors, too many hues, too much beauty pressing against her eyes. She dared to not even tread beneath its cool complexion and glassy fixtures, not worthy, not deserving, and instead, fixated her gaze upon the cool, babbling brook nearby. With its springtime vestiges, with its chilling oeuvre, it may have been enough to subdue the scalding pain across her hide, chiseled down her shoulders, rising along her barrel and over her spine, where the burns made tracks of all her follies and flaws. Imogen cast a careful, guarding eye, settling upon a rock as her mistress clenched her jaw and eased, wading, into the pool. The ivory fox only glanced down when Lena’s maw dipped below the surface, pretending not to see, not to hear, the hushed screams pulsing beneath the churning waters.

@[Tandavi]

The Songbird disappeared beneath the cool, churning depths of the brook, cast aside her armor, her shell, her vessel, and became buried, soaked, swallowed in regret. Every time she closed her eyes fire and blistered behind them, and every time she opened them wide, the call of the inept seared against her heart. Lost to the moments and instances of her folly, she drove further into the brook, hastening the water to flow around her neck like a noose, like a reminder, of idiocy and foolishness, and ceased all movement. She allowed the current to wrap along her frame, hide disaster and ruin, hastening quiet and serenity beyond the cacophony of ire and irritation building inside her. A nightingale clipped, a swallow silenced, the only indulgence she prospered upon herself was to hide amongst the gallery of open space, wind, and sky, to return to the elements before she destroyed them any further. The Mender was nearly too embarrassed and ashamed to return to the Sun God, because he’d known of her selfishness, because he’d bestowed her the opportunity to succumb to it, and she had, slinking down into the boughs of mercenary, acquisitive designs. Would he even grant her wishes, if he could see the scarred bits of her insides?

Imogen, however, couldn’t stand the constant sorrow flanking and corroding over the precious walls of her beloved, and if Roland or anyone she was close to was nearby she would have found them, gathered and nestled, tossed their essences towards the melancholy maiden and hoped they could find a way to end the misery. It was frustrating, because all she could offer was her constant affability and benevolence, and Lena would prosper her a smile, and nothing else. The little demon felt utterly incapable, annoyed, and exasperated. Her fox gaze continued watching over Lena, a queen upon her stone throne, easing a plaintive sigh so the femme wouldn’t have to, when she heard movement, footfalls, amongst the marble temple. She arched a brow, raised her nose, quickened the rapid pace of scent ensnaring, finding it familiar, distant, as if they hadn’t seen or met it in many lifetimes. Intrigued and curious, the kitsune glanced once more towards Lena, presuming her to be safe and secure for the moment, and then leaped off her rock, on the hunt for comfort and salvation.

She slunk, dancing within the eaves of the waving grasses and wild fronds, slithering and crawling like a carnivorous cretin, white tails lowered and bristling. The tiny beast listened to the ricochet of hooves against monument, the shards of another’s nails carving and clawing upon the grain. Sinuously bending and blending, she only raised her cranium when she neared the entrance, narrowing her stare, interest taking flight at the appearance of two individuals: one carved and molded like gentle, sweet Lena, barring a horn and some odd markings (honestly, they looked quite peculiar but she couldn’t recall where she’d seen them before), and one of her own kind, darker and male. Would her companion mind if she hastened them towards her, if she managed to show them a broken soul in need of a little mending? Proud and defiant, fearless and intrepid, if not a little haughty and bold, the vixen inclined further into the aperture so only her head appeared, indulgent and mischievous. She uttered one feral chirp towards them, exposed a playful fang, a swing of her ivory tails in the wind, before turning in a delighted twirl, beckoning them to accompany her towards the stream. Thereafter, she performed more dancing steps, leading down the brook’s embankment, where the Songbird was too soft and too harsh on herself.

@[Tandavi]