The pale vixen lavished and swooned in the coveted attention; vain and confident, she pulsed and pervaded amidst the riveted audience, proffering her soft whiskers to grace the stag’s cheek, then curling a puff of smoke from her parted jaws for a bit of show. She waltzed in the limelight, puffed out her fur, fluffed her tails, curled every frond and plume in place, ensuring her refinement, grace, and power was beheld, spies enamored, riveted, enticed. Lena tried, with great difficulty, not to laugh, muffling the score of giggles threatening an exuberant barrage from her throat, feigning a whimsical smile when Imogen glanced her way after indulging the spectator. While Ashamin absorbed, like an ample scholar, like a kind, quiet observer, the nymph speculated on his tones, on his own understanding and comprehension of companions, of bonded creatures. Never alone, always safe - a consecrated oath of constancy, of endurance, of power and love uttered between silent vows and quiet terms. Truthfully, the nymph was unsure where she’d be without Imogen, perhaps a little more lost than she was now, slinking and hovering between the cracks and crevasses of life, hoping for some grand whimsy to grasp and pull her from doldrums, from gallows, from entrails and machinations. More than once the kitsune had been her savior, and the fairy had returned the favor, consumed in their endless cycle of protection and devotion. Her gaze settled upon the painted figure, piecing together her musings, her sagacity, snatching at lilting harmonies and teasing, tilting whirls. “Its lovely. I couldn’t imagine my life without her.” The fox chirped in response, perhaps a likewise reply, or some teasing sentiment unnoticed. Their connection was like the multitude of others traversing the surface of the earth, timeless, potent, and wonderful, granting an endless source of ambience and contentment. Before she could sink further into the ruminations, her kind eyes floated along the black and white slate of the stag, watched as he seemed to fade away, drifting off to another time, another place, revisiting ghosts, memories, and wraiths. Ever composed, she waited, adrift in the falling leaves, in the crisp, autumn light, hovering on the brink of moonbeams and shattering stars; gloriously fey, belonging to elements of old and new.

When he flickered back into the present, she was still there, hovering on the edges of shards and slivers, tenacity and permanence, never straying. The stallion presided closer and closer still, until she had to tilt her head, draw her inquisitive eyes towards the tips of his ears and the sway of his motions, watch the tracing, the sketching, of fine intelligence eager and fervent, inquisitive and reaching, wanting and yearning for the wisdom of this land, but not knowing where to start. She grinned all the more, sank into raptures and reveries, spiraling off into dulcet chords and layered taffeta, basking in the breathless hymns of laced, archaic enigmas, brandishing deliverance and liberation through the wayward croons and beatific murmurs. Like a storyteller, she polished words with grand finesse, delving closer and closer to delightful tempests and tranquil trances, scars and triumphs, blossoms and ferocity – starting with the roads to sovereignty. “Helovia contains four empires: the Aurora Basin, where I reside," here she itched to lavish poetry and sonnets upon the framework of its name, on the beautiful strands of prowess and peaks, but carried on, saving it for later moments if his interest was piqued, “the Dragon’s Throat, Hidden Falls, and the World’s Edge.” She spoke each and every one with a lacquered layer of calm, as if each one did not contain haunting, poignant edges, as if each one did not have a horrifying claim, as if each one was alluring, beguiling, and wonderful. For half a moment, she dared to include him on the latest wars, the dastardly invasions, but at the same time, she also didn’t want to frighten him into leaving altogether. So many secrets, so many flaws, so many duplicities: between every wall, every corridor, there were crushed dreams and harmonious glories. Instead of bridging that gap, rolling over that stone, the Mender played to the notion of magic, of enchantments, of invocations, another overwhelming juncture of this fantastic, cruel world. “You may also find creatures within that are capable of wielding magic.” The last word was pressed into a light, fond whisper, eyes glittering, fanned by flames incited and invoked behind their gilded effervescence (one of the fey, one of the fairies, one of the pixies, impish and delighted, brilliant and dazzling); wondering which bait he’d take, or if he’d tear into both, grasp and clench for the entire, vivid portion of enlightenment.