Two of the horned beasts came, both wholly familiar through exploits, diversions, antics and amusements throughout the Basin, and were it any other time Imogen may have flickered back into her majestic rite; brandishing her blue-tipped plumes in wild, uplifting ambience, sauntering to the tune of her Mender’s songs, pressing the beat of chirps and magnificence in the crescendos…

But it was not to be: the situation was too dire, and she was far too shackled and chained in her wrath to contemplate merriment; not when her beloved Songbird had been diverted and uprooted into peril. Her jaws snapped closed, clicking and clenching against one another in cool predilection, and she sought out pacing, allowing the movements and maneuvers to calm her rankled demeanor, but try as she might, there was no true distraction from the unholy varnish tarnishing her soul, blackening her sights, willing them to immoral factions. The pale vixen glanced from one to the other, realizing her candor, while always a flow of silent, bonding words flowing between her and dear, sweet Lena, the gilded Roland and tattoo-ed Doctor would not be proffered the same benefit. Her chirrups would only do so much. Her anger would only cast so many stones.

Her glance seared to the Hellhound, Aramis, and in untamed, chaotic shambles, she unraveled the tale in bellicose roars and fervent gestures towards the beast, hoping it could convey all the nuances of the disastrous story, not leave it fettered and befuddling. Lena taken by inky stallion. Stolen. Paralyzed by herb. She paused, furrowed her foxy brows, willed all of the wiles of her ancestors, of her lineage, of her species, to portray what needed to be stated. Go to Falls, I think.

Then, she glanced at Roland, whose chest heaved and breath seemed cast aside into amble bouts of consternation and apprehension – rightfully so, because their combined adventures with Mender, Thief, and kitsune had lent some wonderful moments, and disastrous pitfalls. Imogen feared this would claim the latter, and she truly didn’t yearn to bring him any more trials or tribulations (she even feared that Lena wouldn’t want him to know, but then the vixen frowned, bristled, at the thought, tossed it into the wind; her beloved’s safety was far more concern than pangs of angst). Since she couldn’t share a connection, beyond their taste for vanity and grandeur, she began miming the entire event, displaying it in vivid spurts of action. At first she chirped into vivid song, miming the gentle Mender’s ability to conjure light, elegant arias no matter the atmosphere, thereafter pretending to slink across icy steps (as they’d had, yearning to reach the battle before it was too late), then sniffing at a strangle bundle of herbs laid at her lady’s feet. She collapsed onto the ground, acting the part of her convulsing Lena (and even then she growled, clenched her jaw at the rancorous memory, revolted and incensed she couldn’t do anything but flee in that harsh moment), and subsequently stood, out of breath, pulsing, maddened, incited all over again, fur ruffled, disjointed, smoke fuming and curling from her maw and tails. Would either of them understand? Could they help? Or should she just sprint across the void, and rescue her mistress herself?


[@[Roland] @[d'Artagnan] ]