Gone were the rancorous tales and spins of the illustrious Songbird, and she spun her way through the heavens, the clouds, the moon and stars, wishing and praying and fervently playing her jovial whims for the world to hear. She skipped, a constant, merry lark, through the underbrush of valleys, amidst the overgrowth of thickets, pressing into wild, untamed minuets with Imogen, or racing against the tide when it shuffled and licked at her feet. The vibrancy of her mended heart bled into each effervescent stride, so as she swept and waltzed and turned into domiciles, through corridors and halls, the melodies followed her in a transfixing, alluring glow, awash and ebullient amidst every abomination filtering into the world. She gave no reason for her happiness or sheer delight, a cloak and dagger interlude trapped within the confines of gilded brigands and golden scoundrels and all her wayward wishes somehow coming into fruition – merely blossoming and blooming amidst petal soft florets and kisses of the sun. The sylph’s soul was a lance through heavy burdens, a persistent, beguiling march into the wreckage of the earth, foiling annihilation with a winsome smile and glorious aria, and if she could have circled the globe on her raptures and reveries, soothing patched maelstroms and healing wicked ire, she would have done so over and over again, never ceasing, never resting. But her caprices, her impulses, her sheer delight and energy carved another path for the day, racing against the summer wiles and the lingering vestiges, paying no heed to the sultry pockets of sunshine glimmering against her hide, turning shade into refuge and boughs into sanctuary, whistling against the chords of the unknown, crossing and meandering into the wayward hold of newcomers. Her radiant mood cast a wholesome glimmer upon furtive, clandestine paths, the juncture of her widening smile flung and sparked and simmered in the regaling sun, and she sauntered with her vixen companion into the wood with every conviction stored within her mind. Each twist, each turn, always left an enigmatic sway, and her gaze peeked through the delicate leaves or the turning needles, hoping to catch a stranger wandering, searching, rummaging for a home. A persevering individual, she always yearned for others to wander into the midst of the Basin, to stare in awe at the aurora clouds, at the dominating mountains, at the majestic beauty and wonder, at the danger and grandeur, and join them in the confines of its stronghold.

So when Lena and Imogen finally gazed upon another, coated in all sorts of conjectures, sable and cerulean, diamond expositions and regalia, she found one more quartered in their sanction. Not to be swindled away from courtesies, from introductions, she hastened an ear towards the sector, pressing lightly and elegantly along the timber-line, extending warm smiles and gracious bows to each individual, knowing neither, but managing to grasp a few notches of names, one Rostislav, the other Ouroboros. Her graceful finesse continued along the breeze, crooning a gentle, amiable singsong, the ivory kitsune chirping behind her, a welcoming unison. “Good day! I’m Lena of the Aurora Basin – my apologies, I overheard your callings.” She tipped her head once more, thinking she should feel abashed by the brief eavesdropping, but then not considering it thereafter. The motivations stoked in her mind failed to reel at the brief prying, couldn’t flounder her grand mood or harmonious joviality. “Perhaps I could assist? If you had any questions regarding Helovia?” Her calm, careful eyes watched, witnessed, narrowed in a sudden speculation, in the dry conviction Ouroboros had unleashed on his sentiments towards the season. “There’s a stream nearby, if you wish to cool off while we converse.” The femme tilted her head towards the other, Rostislav, horned and burly, and thought he too may benefit from the cooling depths of a wading brook. At least there’d be comfort amidst the circumstances.

The party, amicable strangers, consented to her suggestion, soon basking in the midst of the calm, tranquil stream, offered and bestowed solace in the heat of Tallsun’s fringes. Eventually the season would pass into Orangemoon, and the cooling nuptials would begin all over again – but before she could wax poetical on the incoming season, her warm eyes flickered from the undergrowth, waterweeds, and flowing, babbling brook, to the newcomer. While Imogen danced along the edges of the water, batting at it occasionally with a front paw, the stranger prospered queries, a common sentiment among the wandering souls. It was to be expected, roaming from land to land without knowledge of their whereabouts, and when finally coming across individuals reigning from the strange tempest, one must snag the opportunity. Helovia was a constant surplus of mystery, enigmas, chaos, and daydreams, each one unwinding in impulsive, decadent enamel, and each time Lena thought she’d discovered an answer to a vicious riddle, another one reared its head; the Hydra, glowing in furtive exploits. She could, however, grant the beast all the serene things she did know, and the light aria danced and dabbled through her throat, carried along on the bright, intriguing figments of light and wind. “You would be correct,” and here a lovely smile bloomed, lined along her cheeks, gilded and effervescent all over again, “There are four herds entirely: the Hidden Falls, the Aurora Basin, The World’s Edge, and the Dragon’s Throat. There are also many more open lands stretching in all directions.” Her voice betrayed nothing of haunting measures, of long, dwindling histories, of new stories flanked and emboldened by the circle and cycle of leaderships, every sovereign had their own mythos, tales, and tribulations, and she’d been embedded in a fair amount of them, another individual lingering in the crowd. But the refined femme, with her grace, with her strength, with her tenacity, could only offer the deepest beauty, the most yearning wonder, of the world she knew, cherished, the best. “The Basin is towards the north, surrounded by mountain summits and peaks. We have quite a few caverns, plentiful valleys, hot springs, and a lake that never freezes.” Pride filtered and flickered through each word, the careful grin still lacquered along her gentle features. The Mender glowed, a tangible, visceral fairy essence, as she meant to deliver an answer to his second query. “You’re standing in the Threshold, where all newcomers wander.” She paused, hesitant on replying to everything and leaving the other, Rostislav, with naught to extend, but enveloped one last response. “Some decide to go towards a herd, and some decide to roam for a little longer.”

The newcomer wanted, craved, and yearned for more, the finite specifics and the vivid, particular details; Lena was only happy and content to oblige. She could wax poetical upon her homeland at the drop of a leaf, at the turn of a feather, at the whisper of a breeze, and her mind churned at the possibilities, what to showcase, which area to represent. So, the Songbird committed to her best actions, one of arias, of strains, of ditties and fantasies, painting whimsical airs and fantastic, sublime tapestries, outcrops of the ice and snow. “The Aurora Basin is led by Lord Deimos and Lady Ophelia. Our patron God is the God of Spark and Time,” and here she could remember his sizzle of electricity, his nonchalant exterior, the brusque, reticent wiles of deities and their mortals. Thereafter, glimmering fancies flickered across her eyes, recalling bright, opulent hues, dancing streams and beams of light. “In the evening, you can see the aurora borealis. It’s a beautiful sight.” Therein, she continued diving throughout, trying to salvage any bit, any piece, any nuance of information or images he wished to know, conveying the sentiments of pride, of prowess, through each one of her mellifluous notes. “The hot springs are wonderful during Orangemoon and Frostfall, just what one needs in the chilly air.” Was there anything else? Her mind whirled, and little Imogen chirped by her limbs, regarding a sentiment about guardians! and Lena hastened back a fond smile for the kitsune. How could she forget? Her gaze swept back to Ouro, chasing down one more rampart for the storm. “We also have a pair of matching metal sentinels crafted by Ulrik, one of our engineers. They guard our borders from possible intruders.” She hesitated again, idly lingering in the creek, listening to the cool babble of the water, enjoying the respite from the overwhelming sun. “Please let me know if there’s anything else you wish to know.” The grin folded back along her lips, incandescent, effervescent, persistent and enduring, a whirlwind of benevolence and beneficence among dark corridors.