Lena was torn. Some portions of her were entirely relieved she hadn’t been called to the frontlines this time, whittling her worries, her anxieties, her tribulations into the junctures of violence and anarchy until she truly didn’t know who she was, what she was. Another part of her, however, yearned to be out in the midst of battle, assisting her cadre in whatever they deigned to face, whether it be monsters, mayhem, or insurrection, reaching through her heartfelt convictions and gallant, enduring chords, churning out songs of destruction and healing. Would they be well, without her there? Would there be enough support? It was strange, being left out in the unknown, in the haze, in the midst and mist, drifting alongside winter rimes and Orangemoon haze, instead of slipping between the sectors and sanction of shadows, lingering upon unknown portals, unleashing a vicious haze – she’d even been practicing in case of such an event. But instead, she and Imogen paced amidst the wide, open clearings, gazed into vivid pools, sharpened their minds and wiles around the hot springs, willing away the hours until her comrades returned, safe, sound, and secure. At the very least, they could be a supportive unit within the Basin itself, just in case something awry were to happen (and the rancorous notions of what such an event would be caused the briefest of shudders to release through her spine; but even if there worst were to occur, she’d be along the foreground, brandishing chaos and anarchy as best she could).

But Ulrik’s part assured her they were to be included, incited, in a piece of the furtive puzzle, and she followed his sharp, keening noise, obliging the Engineer, delving into curiosity at the femme near him, bay and unfamiliar, and the speckled, ivory and sable Phantom. The other appeared vexed, frustrated, and irritated, perhaps also incited he’d been left out of the open world of chaos beyond their door, and the Songbird suppressed some amiable, kind words, allowing her eyes to instead trail over the stranger. A sinking notion filled her veils when she realized the other must be some sort of prisoner (a metal band secured to her leg, the gilded Midas strapped nearby; the terrible flames of acrimony and restlessness rearing its head, and she wasn’t sure if she could do this, come face to face with victims of their hate, their menace), but she steeled her gaze, employed a stoic, calm, composed figure. If her breaths were mingled in panic, in uncertainty, she hoped no one would say anything. She was proud to find her voice didn’t even crack amidst the unwinding, clawing ministrations, basking in the regal glow, the avaricious warmth, of the rapturous sun. Perhaps she was just as tainted as the lot of them, agreeing to chains and shackles, tending to manacles and cuffs. “I would be happy to oblige. What do you require?”