No sooner had she arrived home was the Songbird off again, returning to the Edge after victories were met and foes vanquished. She dove into her role, her purpose, her finesse, into wondrous distraction, preferred a diversion to the grinding glimpses of her idiocy, of her ineptitudes, of her miring insecurities: arriving soon after Kahlua’s explanation, roaming her eyes over the cliffs, over the sea, over the fog, listening to the quandaries and intrigue lain before her. A portion of her yearned to go towards the Sunshower, express her sympathies, convey her sentiments (because she’d had no part in this war, but she understood all the others, the rise and fall of violence, the brooding upheaval, the sudden swing into vehemence and the murky attempts to get out of it), but there was no opportunity, so she merely listened to the junctures of pain, to the wallows of discomfort. Beneath the shambles of this strange sedition, the beatific Mender keened a few assuaging notes, the earnest, granted platitudes of gentle, harmonious arias springing into twirling leaves and desperate dew, fervently granting a healing, mending rapture and reverie to her friend. Thereafter, she only spun back into silence, a witness, a philosopher, a sage mind for the tacticians, for the diplomats, for the barbarians lining up and paying their respects to designs, ambitions, and dreams. The aftermath of war was nearly alluring in its creed: where rhyme and reason combined into machinations and calculations, where power and might swayed to leadership roles left empty and ambiguous. Her ears swiveled towards Ophelia and her piece, then grew slightly startled by Torleik’s appearance, his wishes, his desires, his intentions; wandering away from the Forsaken, away from the Basin, gesturing towards the hallowed pathways of the Moon Goddess and her empire. Was it his worship of the deity that prompted this, or something else altogether? Her gaze narrowed, then chimed back into hallowed vessels and effervescent splendor, folding into her hushed depths and proffering salutations in a contorted nod towards other candidates and their illustrious General. Another swiftly followed, and Lena played the composed minstrel, the singing ambassador, the calm consul and efficient emissary, while the legions of war strummed and played their final crescendos: more battles to be had, more skirmishes to be won.

[Lena on hand for assistance!]