They spent the idle hours of daybreak’s regime by casting warm glows around the lake, settling along the shore, solidifying a powerful stance amidst the short, sloping beach. Nothing like the ocean, it gave her great comfort and peace, despite her drumming veins and an echo of her swift heart, and here, under the watchful guard of Imogen, she breathed, crooned, and harpooned. More of an indulgence, more of a conjuring of might and will, to brush over the apprehension searing in her restless wake, she began a sweet melody, like delicate, shimmering waves, hastening and caressing them over the serene current, the docile, tranquil foils, weaving them in and out of the skyline. The notes polished and lacquered, one dream to another, balancing and unwinding, graceful curls and fronds, gentle plumes and vigilant streams, and all at once, she altered the formation, watched the repose scatter. Summoning a passionate decree, remembering panic, ire, and injustice, the intonation and inflection warbling from her throat morphed, no longer the delicate songbird, but a blistering phoenix, unfurling a rampant outcry, a bellicose reverie. From the crescendos, the unwavering strength, the demonstrative fortitude, came the Sun God’s promise and prowess, ignited and enlightened, embers cast over the lake, a fiery abyss, a blaze, an inferno, and she watched for a series of moments as they burst, rapid, quick, fleeting, down into the water, quenched and sated. Over and over again, as she fanned over the strings, the elements, they rose and fell, lilting and glorious, treacherous and luminescent, boiling and surging below the babbling water. The kitsune chirped here or there, but Lena forgot to listen, shaking absentmindedly in the warm, summer haze, unsure of what to do, how to feel, lost in a sultry daze, overwhelmed by the power suddenly streaming through her, something she’d requested. She shook her head once or twice, attempting to be rid of the frightening demonstration, forgoing curiosity and potency in the dawning junctures of light and sun, choosing to quell more beneficent melodies, more cordial sonnets, more rapturous arias and sinuous strains, erasing the relentless puissance she’d shown. There, they stayed and strayed, the ivory vixen’s mouth drawn into a weary sort of ambience, and the other elegantly honed on the skyline, the horizon, the disappearing stars and the flourishing wiles, holding onto capricious whims a little while longer in the back of her mind.

She’d lost track of the morning by the time the Thief approached, distantly shrouded in peace, in contentment, in forged repose; the pale fox had given no warning alarm (naught but the slightest bob towards the roaming brigand, the delicate balance of a smirk to match his). The nymph only heard the shuffle of feet, the subtle, soft descent of the circlet, the earnest call of salutations. The fairy, caught unaware, had the briefest time to flush and blush, catching the sight of the gilded ring lying in the grass, before returning his gaze and greetings; a wispy, dainty tune, floating on the wings of the unknown, straining not to wonder if he’d liked the gift, if he wanted it to disappear into the folds of the snaking lawn… “Good morning.” Then Roland looked down, upon the glowing object, and her cheeks, her face, her features burned, flaring with uncertainty, peering down at the little ornament, struggling not to waver and pry, ask and query, if he enjoyed the bestowal. Perhaps it was nothing, of no use to him, cumbersome and displeasing, and her nerves began to sizzle and smolder fractions more, dragging their apprehension down the length of her limbs and falling to her brow, furrowed and staring at the embellished ruby along the ground. Imogen muttered several sweet nothings across their bond, well wishes, sudden, absolute convictions, but the Mender didn’t nourish any, flailing and quaking in silence.

But the Thief's question held more power, more prestige, than any other answer he could have given. For a few seconds, Lena merely held his gaze and gaped, jaw slackened, maw opened but incapable of forming any words, before she snapped it shut with the vigilance of a composed noble, while her essence simply softened, dissolved, a pulsing, vibrant harmony sculpted, molded, from her heart. “Of course.” Determined, for she would show nothing else, she lowered her mouth to the vibrant, intricate trinket, enclosed her lips over its center with an ardent caress, with a smooth, devoted kiss, and drew her head back towards the heavens, gazing over his proffered horn. It felt poignantly intimate, as if she was bestowing far more than just a circlet along his rapier – maybe her heart, beating and fluttering over the wake of his sword, where it would sit and reign, trusted and beholden, protected and guarded. The fey’s breath mingled softly, gently, over his brow, rustling tassels of his forelock, as she carefully released and relinquished her hold on the bauble, brushing her lips over the keen balance of his blade; instigating a single query in the opulent amity. “Do you like it?”


@[Roland]

The first set of giggles cast from her frame in ages sauntered in a harmonious reverie, slowly drifting along her tongue until she couldn’t cease the exuberant laughter, and though light and elegant, it seized hold and floated into the summer breeze, laden the world with beguiling, alluring fronds. Renewed and rejoicing, the merriment pulsed and quivered in delicate whims, cascading and rippling on the tender wind, on the warm, slinking rays, on the exotic fervor and relish of an enchanting instance. Perhaps it was the way he carried himself through the water, proud and mighty, only to gaze upon his reflection, ensuring a vainer portion of his character was gratified and content, confirming his approval, only to continue staring at himself. Her lighthearted jubilation broke into a careful, crooning carol as he drew nearer, and a collected sigh warbled from her throat, like the passing of a great, reverential tide had swept back over her, and the worries trickled away, down into nothingness and runes. The nymph nodded at his appreciation and, reforming the grand smile she always used to wear, polishing the tender nuances of her arias and strains. “You’re welcome.” When he stoked naught more, no questions over the ornament, no reasons contrived for its essence, for its existence, the fairy presumed he knew of the reasons for its arrival, for its bestowal, and chimed no more on the subject, sliding her gaze from mountain to lake, then back to the golden brigand. Indulging in the silence, her stare became a minor nuance, basking in his gilded presence, in his illustrious company. The notion and sentiments were peaceful, filled with repose and serenity, blessed and bountiful with simplicity, not diminished by the archaic thresholds of war and bloodshed, of murders and scoundrels. If every day could be sworn and plaited in such a form, consecrated and anointed with naught more than a few mischievous contortions and wild with only laughter, she’d have no apprehension, no searing distortions, no catastrophic measures and munitions.

The Mender, too engrossed in his fond, handsome smile, hadn’t treated the quietude with enough respect – for no sooner had she relaxed in its languid stretch, did Roland summon a brimming, laden query, quiet, hesitant. Almost out of habit, she looked away, cautious and stalwart, gathering strength and dominion for the recollections, for the answers, he sought. The question was far deeper than simple pleasantries, and she’d skirted, avoided, the true nature of the subject in their past meetings – floating and skimming across shoals, shores, forests, and ice as the Earth God presented them with more and more challenges, fueling her inner core with necessities and duties, rather than dragging her mind back into danger and treachery. All the unsaid ruminations came crashing back: her failures, her passions deluding and casting eerie spells and bright, blinding fragments of pain, her apologies, though unwanted, that continued flickering and sputtering along her core. She’d hope to dodge the subject entirely, and even though it seemed nearly cowardly, she didn’t want to relive the thought of the Thief turning to ash in her midst, sinking into the sand as mere embers and coals, once alive, then quickly dashed and disappeared. The fey stole a few breaths of Tallsun air, and Imogen quirked the tiniest brow, fastening her armor over her chest and along her throat, so when her voice unwound it didn’t quake, it didn’t flutter, it didn’t break. Her eyes wandered over to his, struggling to appear placid and unruffled. “I’m well. And yourself?” Well could be held in many different regards; truthfully, she hadn’t been marked or scarred by any other chaotic foils – her hide was slowly healing, for she refused to use her time invocations any more on the blights, losing the sharpened, telltale shimmer of burns and fire, adjusting to renewing hide and pelt. Lena had kept herself busy, chiming away at the stars and the sky, delivering herbs to herds in their proclaimed armistice, wandering the locked gateways in search of strangers to coax towards their beautiful mountains. She’d pushed and prodded the treacheries to the far regions of her memories, and only in her slumber did they reel again, back and forth, agonizing miseries telling the disastrous story all over again. Her eyes meandered back to the cool lakebed, and a keen note of courage and valor spiked through her veins, because maybe, if she fostered the potency she’d been given, the terror would have been justified (even that thought seemed weak, but she didn’t know how to fix the bridge, the gap, they’d nestled and stoked). Her melody hovered, careful and quiet, attempting to maintain their harmonic semblance without breaking, without breeching, the savage coils of their prior circumstances. “I returned to the Sun God and was granted the magic I sought.” The Songbird tilted her head a fraction, and the charms she’d acquired from their recent adventures twinkled in the sunlight, blooming one fresh floret, as if she were truly the innocent blossom nestled beneath woods and summits. “Would you like to see?”

@[Roland]

The fledgling hours of dawn, hastened by shards of pink hues on the horizon, seemed to chase them in silly, courting whims, a finch’s brief tune, a meandering fish’s diffident splash; he wasn’t bothered by her answer, didn’t appear disturbed or distorted by the delicate secrets laced within. The Thief was well, still strong, still composed, still regal and magnificent, and she was still the dove, the swallow, the nightingale, fluttering at her errors and trying to hide them beneath her strains and arias. Her musical benevolence swept the turns and revolutions, uniting with the threatening, sultry balms, the stirrings of the sun’s power. “I’m happy to hear it.” She had half a rumination to joke with him, perhaps ponder if he’d been set upon fire recently, but quieted instead, enjoyed the tranquility without the frivolous banter. Like nothing had changed at all: no monsters, no melees, no munitions scorched and surged, and the notion itself was comforting, because there was no ill will, no ghastly piercing, no registered, mercurial divinations. If he thought her foolish, if he thought her selfish, if he thought her inept, he provided naught on the subject, allowing and bestowing the alms of her furtive credence to remain, to forgo the digging of horrors when the wounds had already closed. The air stirred and hummed, fond and content, and the sense of repose remained, acceptance kindled and provided all over again at his kindness, at his benevolence, as if the resolute pieces of fire could distort any calamity they’d previously incited. She breathed one wholesome sigh of relief, entrenched an edge of her lip in an almost impish delight, and began to sing.

At first, it was rhapsody and harmony, balanced between harpsichord raptures and elegant reveries, sliding amongst the ballads and merriments she knew best, gallivanting in refined interludes, chasing after the long lost stars, cascading along the mountain walls. Then, little by little, she altered the vocals, drove deeper inflections and intonations, caressed folds of chicanery and potency, and pierced slivers of power and persuasion. They sounded as strange as her first performance, ricocheting and colliding, corroding and dividing in a nearly sinister symphony, summoning, beckoning, tracing the foundations of embers and coals over the subtle, fine, delicate spread of water, hastening in flashes of absolute infernos. Curling from the summer air, commanded and wielded by their songstress, the potent blaze seared and scorched, snapped over the lake, puncturing and piercing the ebb and flow, the rise and fall of the slinking tide, casting seditious reflections in its wayward haze. As she sang, her eyes clung to the segments of blistering, sizzling, smoldering forces, tangible traces of what she’d sought (protection, I must protect my herd, my brethren, my family), stare burning just as vividly as the fire she possessed. With disquieting finality, because the essence of danger, of bedlams, of maelstroms, flared and flickered over her mind and the taste was molten, the anthem ended, segmented in one last, lingering coal, before it fell into the water, to the bottom of the lake, mutilated ash.

The fey was hesitant to look upon Roland’s features, scared of what she may see along his golden brow. Repugnance, distaste, contempt, antipathy? Would he loath the sight of those flames? Would he avert her presence, leave her with naught but beautiful memories and then battered, rancorous fringes? Would he think their journey had been ridiculous and ludicrous for paltry embers blistering, unwinding, and fanning into useless flames? Some portion of her knew the apprehension was foolish, because he’d seemed excited and curious, a scoundrel’s nature, had expected something of this magnitude, of this element, and another segment of her brave, stalwart entity knew she didn’t need his approval (but her heart would have liked it, cherished it, thought well of it when courting the branches and boughs of combustion). Her eyes wandered from enchanting pool to blue eyes, smiling albeit her touch of nerves, her scalding of consternation. “I haven’t practiced it much, and I don’t know its range…” The sylph’s words trailed off, brow furrowed, lost in sweeping, useless thoughts, before churning and chirping all over again, Imogen’s pride whispering in the back of her mind, awash and nuanced with bright thoughts and cherished sentiments, savoring the call of vehemence. “But I hope to use it for protecting the Basin.” The grin extended, but vocals proceeded no further, not daring to pry between nooks and crannies for the answers she desperately wanted. Do you like it? Is it all right? Do you think less of me? Should I never have sketched this path?

@[Roland]

The sylph waited for his appraisal on the flickering, dying edges of embers, coiling back into their folds and ashes, flowing into the regime of summer, cascading into the reams of light. Her gaze followed his, along the furrows of captivation, of wonder, of beguiling, tremulous allure, and her heart beat at a tremendous crescendo, waning and billowing, a flaring roar hollowed and hallowed inside her chest. The delicate portions of her soul always yearned for stretches of approval, the notion she’d succeeded, the sentiment she’d triumphed, rather than sunk into a miserable contortion of life and immorality that shouldn’t have belonged to her. The quest and crusade had been a series of consternations, whether she’d been too bold, too fierce, whether she’d placed a dear friend in the middle of a fray, whether she’d been conquered and defeated by her own selfish whims, but the quirk of his smile, the spark of his voice, was enough to assuage the frayed foibles and fancies. At his laugh, the fairy blossomed, effervescent and ethereal, sparked and kindled and stoked by the fibers of his acceptance (and when had he never given it?, Imogen remarked), easily granting her the confirmation, the credence, the faith she’d so eagerly craved. Her smile widened and entranced, dappled its way through her gaze, danced and waltzed in the fine timbre of merriment, slipping and sliding into avenues of pride, of wistfulness, of traces and trances of affirmation; she’d faltered, she’d stumbled, but still crawled her way through the primrose path and remained supreme. The notches of his delight towered over hers and spellbound the finesse, the grace, of her prior nerves, soothing the fringes, savoring the delicacies, ghosting and warming her skin with subtle, finite raptures. Perhaps in his presence she could be anything and everything, scale every wall, fortify every rampart, scorn every enemy, because he believed she could, and some enduring quality in her, past the resolution, past the determination, always required a little more guidance, a little more encouragement. Molded and sculpted in the Thief’s chivalry, the Songbird fluffed her wings and shared her laughter, easy, singsong, magnificent and mellifluous as the most dangerous of her melodies; solidifying the traces of their adventures, while not without peril, had been worth the arduous, agonizing contortions. Perhaps, with Roland’s acquiescence, with Roland’s charismatic swing, she didn’t need to dwell around the roots of their trials, riddle and pull and snarl her way through thorns and thickets, and simply be, exist, enjoy. Life didn’t always have to be about the licentious conceits creeping around them, about the melancholy swallowing them whole; the gilded brigand reminded her of that, time and time again. So the fey, illustrious and healed, ebuillient and whole, tugged her way back into teasing measures and giggles, for coaxing the sounds from him, from herself, were more satisfying than the haunting works of noxious holidays. Sorrows had been chased away, clouds had been vanquished, dragons had been slain – all by one flaxen Thief.

Imogen, smirking at the water’s edge, sly and subversive, innocence be damned in the course of her snicker, held and snatched glory too, basking in the glow of Roland’s admiration. She batted her long eyelashes in a magnificent display of vanity, putting Narcissus to shame, and preened, fangs extended across her impish smile, wandering close to the golden’s long legs, weaving in and out of his limbs, twining her ivory tails back and forth, chirping and extending his wonderful efforts at pointing out her dangerous, amazing capabilities. At one chirrup, she parted her jaws and released a few puffs of smoke, promising fire and brimstone, while Lena giggled all the more, shaking her head in disbelief. In a mocking scolding tone, she likely could never truly rebuke, reprimand, or admonish the gilded stag that continued to release her from every cage she built around herself, her melodic chords slid into the sunlit sky, lacquered and tipped with serenading humor. “Don’t give her any ideas!” The exuberance continued in the holy reverence of Lena’s grin, formed and composed all for him, her frame sidling closer to stand nearer to his gilded essence, wind hastening charms and tassels to flutter and twirl in its corporeal, tangible fingers. Her eyes settled along his strong presence, took a few idle instances to soak in his warmth, his essence, his spirit, openly admiring the entirety of his being. For a few seconds, she even took to staring at the ring around his horn, how neatly it fit, how it matched, how it conspired, how it gleamed, already marked and ensconced as his. The smile reappeared, indulgent and curious, the sway of her lips parting again to extend the treaty of questions and acclaim. “And what have you been up to?” Her head tilted, inquiring, teasing, and alluring, a mischievous enticement branching and weaving through the elegant swing of the rapturous breeze – truly yearning to know – but granting him a passing tide if clandestine, undercover snippets were meant to remain furtive. “Gathering secrets?”


@[Roland]

Too far-gone, the kitsune smirked and patrolled the water’s edge, finding a warm stone to rest upon and revel in all her glory, all her sanctity and potential ruin. While she was yet to become an abomination, the powers were tucked neatly into her folded, ivory prowess, and unlike Lena, she had no reservations about showcasing the brilliant display of splashing embers and deadly force; given the right opportunity, she’d harpoon, lance, and scatter their way into legends and mythos. She, like so many surreptitious beings, allowed the secrets to dance and scatter through her eyes, pierce and shackle and fetter their way towards Roland, who seemed a master of specious things, and shared the precious armaments between furtive friends.

Meanwhile, the nymph was too absorbed and enthralled by the handsome croons of Roland’s laughter, the playful ambience heightened away from waning horrors, to be dismayed or disappointed by the vixen’s plotting of world domination. She rose and fell like the gentle waves, a humble, benevolent smile cresting over her lips, riveted and occupied by the subtle, whimsical changes between the shifting breeze and the charismatic play of his humor. The Songbird didn’t possess the abashment to blush when she was caught staring at him, continuing to admire the rapture of his being, the reverie of his presence and existence. She had no other words to describe his aura, his tangibility, his poise, without crediting finer works of art, brandishing statues, tapestries, and portraits, riddled in opulence, in grandeur, in oeuvre foundations and sumptuousness. He was grand for far too many reasons, and the lithe, slender femme was tempted to describe, to chronicle and detail every single amount of significance, from unburdening her cumbersome fetters, unlocking her gilded cage, allowing her the most wonderful, zealous, fervent freedoms, to being free of judgment. He was worth revering, praising, and commending, and she’d bestow him the regard at every point imaginable – eyes glittering, possessed and seized by the ardent croons. Even when he joked, displaying some idle strokes of vanity, she adhered to it, glided on mellifluous wings and proffered her widest grin. “You’ve always looked magnificent.” It ended on a whimsical chirp, a serene glow, and only thereafter did a faint, rosy hue muddle her complexion, and she quickly looked away, towards the ripples in the lake, the passing birds in the wide, open sky, running her gaze slowly back towards him in a hesitant outreach, then hastening it all away on warm, hallowed giggles.

But her questions had flickered and sparked their way down through the rabbit-hole, and as she listened to his response, bright, curious, inquisitive, nurtured by the mere ruminations of his apparition, the dawning reality, the singsong veracity, only curled another roll of apprehension in her soul. Perhaps this had been the moment she’d been dreading for some time, relishing in all his finer aspects, dreaming in colors of gold and crimson and champagne, drinking in the vivid spark of his life and essence, because eventually he would wander, he would stray, and she, too resolute, too persevering, would stay in the icy empire, forsaken. Her heart clenched in minute figures, Imogen shuffled from her monolith, and her features remained so utterly composed, tranquilly fixating on the horizon as she captured all the nuances, all the phrases, but wasn’t enticed to bare her thoughts on the answers. She wouldn’t be selfish, she’d already committed those actions a thousand times in his glances and stares, she wouldn’t ask him to stay, and she wouldn’t drown in the wake of unsaid quandaries or beckoning tribulations. He had ideas, he had notions, he had snares for the future, and she would proffer him every opportunity to chase after those dreams of glory, of ambitions, of aspirations. Maybe she’d been grasping and snagging at borrowed time, and it was only fair to give him back to the nomadic, Gypsy strides, the wandering, wayfaring parallels. Lena drew her eyes back to him on an inaudible smile, on a brilliant smile masking all of these untold sentiments, seemingly basking in delight when all the while it felt like something was being ripped away from her. “Then I hope for your prosperity.” Grinding one more beatific chirp, one more benevolent murmur, she granted him another lingering promise. “Let me know if I can help.”


@[Roland]

The Songbird continued with the pretenses, laughed and giggled while pretending to fawn and swoon over the beauty and credence of the Galahad before her; but all the while, the undercurrent dampened her spirits, folded over the vibrant crescendos of mirth and merriment, closing in on the whimsical interlude. She bowed back to him, like a fanciful curtsy, attempted the smile to reach past her eyes and enlighten them with stars or wisdom, something befitting the moment instead of the frozen sanction of her chest beating a fluttering, haphazard wake. “I meant what I said!” The bubbling vocals harpooned and languished, sauntered and shimmied, danced a waltz she no longer felt like embracing. Lena was an ardent mixture of emotions and sentiments, willed and imparted into rabbit heart charades and tranquil edges, the serene vestiges wore away a carefully harbored port, sacrificing again and again and again until all she had left were those untarnished memories and wonderful images of times long since past. She didn’t want him to go – the notion was simplistic, but ruthless and selfish, and she bit into those fortifications enough times over to never yearn or warrant the irreverent invocations again. He’d always granted her freedom, liberated her motives and movements with reverent ease, immersed his gestures into allowing, into bestowing, such wonderful benedictions, and she’d wound her way through them, scaled grand heights, sown illustrious wakes, battled behemoths, sank into webs of fire and brimstone – all without judgment, all without penalty. She’d have to do the same for him: never daring to slip a noose, a snare, a lure over his nape and keep him strangled, suffocated, choking in place where he didn’t yearn to be. Roland had given her so many lovely artifacts, so many incandescent moments, and the least she could do for him was impart her benedictions, her benevolence, her kindness, guidance, and warmth, even if he was to fly away as she smoothed over her last words. She wouldn’t ask him to stay. She wouldn’t whisper or croon or murmur a single sonnet to chain him into ruins, into abominations, into wolfish, rapacious glee. The nymph, the sylph, the fairy, would leave so many things unsaid to ensure he followed the path he coveted, grin, avail him to future glories and passionate endeavors; no smile out of place, no tune out of melody. The fey would offer him what he’d always proffered upon her: liberation, deliverance. It was just and fair, and if it broke her heart, perhaps that was what she’d deserved for being mercenary, for being acquisitive. His plans would reign, would dominate, would settle scores, would ensnare sagacity and potency, and she, the elegant, lithe nightingale, would grow stronger too.

Even in the midst of all these unraveling thoughts, she wanted to be a part of the crusade. She wanted to go, she wanted to stray, she wanted to travel alongside him and provide all the endless strength, protection, he’d granted to her, but her eyes flickered along his frame, suddenly tense, rigid, taut, and the sentiments ended abruptly. There was a chance her presence would be a nuisance, a flaw in the scheme, a broken piece of the puzzle, and she’d ruin it before everything could be started or unraveled. The femme curled the sentiment back on herself, added one more secret to her parcel of enigmas and labyrinths, ignored the sullen sigh framed by Imogen’s unsubtle frown, fixating her stare back over mountain tops and caverns, distant, rolling valleys of her home, something she cherished, something she adored, struggling to impart syllables and phrases into the sudden silence.

But prior smiles and well wishes must have played their part; the gilded relaxed, and she loosened a breath she’d been holding. His quiet gratitude ruffled the curl of her grin back in place, but something told her he still wouldn’t take her, still wouldn’t search for her when the time was right, and maybe that was okay too. The lithe creature fought against sinking her head into the embankment, remained stoic and calm, composed, charming, effervescent as the wind wound its way through their voices, turning them hollow, then hallowed. When he offered his touch, she took it, leaned into it, embraced it for some laced farewell, preferring the ghostly touch of his breath, of his caress along her cheek than naught at all, kept it tucked in the forefront of her mind for the days to come. She accepted it, every little bit and piece of disappointment and apprehension, like a persevering, enduring paragon, smiling in spite of the choking hold over her heart. “When will you go?” Her eyes didn’t seek his, wandering over the arches and lilting stream, lanced towards the horizon, too grateful for his stroke, not moving away from its semblance, from its tangibility, pressing it to memory, to fixation, while her voice remained strong and undaunted, the finesse of taffeta strings and mighty minstrels.


@[Roland]