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.