They waited in quiet, content silence, scorched across the beautiful earth. Imogen took to the shade between Lena’s forelegs, dropping the herbs in the dusky hollows, in the looming darkness, so they didn’t fray and wither, and the nymph responded with a gentle smile and a composed brow. She didn’t complain about the heat rankling her skin, elongating droplets of sweat beneath her thick tassels of mane, and said nothing of the waves of sultry divinations bounding from illusions and enigmas. She knew what it was like to be embroiled and coated in flames; the notion blinded her for a few fractions as she stared across the crimson valley, never yearning to become draconic. The only disconcerting notion plaguing her frame was the thought of no one arriving, lost beyond the hot looking glass, left to fend for themselves on the great plain of sand and dunes, melted and forlorn. Her lack of familiarity with any of their citizens didn’t help either, and the nettle, the barb, of her foolishness slithered softly down her spine, nestled between her shoulders, rankled into her ruminations until they were clouded with apprehension and misgivings.

But she hastened away from the raw, biting sentiments at the sound, the creak, of the bridge: ears enticed by the hint of movement, the scratch of presence, pricked forward, eager, unsettled, stirring in haste. Only the slightest hint of recognition burned between her memories at the sight of the Dragon’s Throat inhabitant, painted in exotic, champagne hues, like cream, like beatific ivory, christened with a horn emblazoned from her brow. Perhaps she’d seen her elsewhere, drifting from land to land, anointed as a passerby. Her voice elongated and punctured through the sweltering, tropical rays, illustrating her into further imagery and tapestries: Sikeax, the Sun Physician, a rank much like Lena’s own, filtering the powers of the gods to mend, to heal, to assuage. At this, her nerves fluttered away, and beautiful wings, wondrous raptures, elegant reveries drummed a graceful finesse, entangling their fairy, fey roots through her beneficent smile, kindling warbling, sparrow notes and chords. “A pleasure, Sikeax. I’m Lena, the Time Mender of the Aurora Basin.” Imogen chirruped, not wishing to be forgotten in the stead of introductions, and the sylph performed a minute bow, a generous curtsy, brushing her maw over the tips of the pale vixen’s ears. “This is my companion, Imogen.” She paused, sweeping the courtesies and bounty of her visit through more gentle tones, cherishing regal regards and granted favors. “Due to our recent armistice, I thought it was only fair to offer some of our herbs to those amongst the Throat.” The kitsune bounded from between her limbs, holding the flora as cherished gifts within her maw, like frankincense or gold, towards the gilded creature, chirping for acceptance. The Mender inclined a little closer, following her bonded in reverential display, calm, tranquil, serene, basking in hopes and fortitude, dreaming of days spent in harmony instead of war or bellicose shards, gentle speculation swarming in her equable gaze. “I can describe them for you, if you’d like?”