Swallowed by the Stygian trails, they blended into sumptuous midnight croons, into twilight abyss’, into shadowed labyrinths and void corridors, but like Ariadne’s woven silk, the Mender knew the way precisely – marking the journey with wholesome songs, warm laughter, and incandescent splendor. She stepped over rubble and stone, she presided over open fields of vacant, fading thistles and the beckoning of precious rime, she glimmered and glittered beneath the entanglement of stars and constellations, serenading their way amidst fragments, hushed depths, and withering leaves. Imogen meandered behind, occasionally swiping at Ashamin’s tail, chirping amidst their vibrant grandeur. Lena thought of naught but amiable pleasantries, the promises, the convictions, of new days and emboldened strangers, drifting within the first few flakes of snow, drinking in the mountain air as it awakened and chilled, hovering in the flurries of contentment. She fluttered nowhere beyond the towering pinnacles rising before them, she scoured nowhere beyond the glistening ramparts and the fascinating turrets, the illustrious peaks and tempting valleys, stronger, composed, along the threshold of night. Buried and tucked under the canvas of shadow and darkness, they could convey and enter the Basin like furtive, secretive militia, loitering and lingering along the lines of infamy, but she was too much of a nymph or sylph to embark further into pretend treachery. The thoughts left her with light-hearted giggles and silly, indulgent mirth, and as the woven slivers of arctic air rested lightly in their lungs, as the first touch of the Basin’s shroud and veil was lifted, her eyes swiveled to Ashamin’s, hoping to see his reaction to the beauty, the opulence, the decadence, riddled and scattered across their gallant vision. The Songbird wasn’t disappointed.

The sky was a picture of poetry, true aurora blessings, rampaging in ambience, in vivid, brilliant colors, melding and molding hues combining to stroke across a shifting canvas, too magnificent, too beautiful, intertwining, curling, coiling, into the cold atmosphere. Perhaps the glaciers knew of their charms, of their allures, of their appeals, providing the best stage for their opulent exposition: where fairies and fey and pixies ran wild across the horizon, dazzling, befuddling, bewildering until the enticement had laced and coveted its desired spell. Her smile grew wider as he exclaimed, as he saw the magic, the enchantments, the invocations brewing and brimming with vibrant, radiant intensity, searing and floating, flying and filtering, into true rhapsody. The stag’s happiness was enough to buoy her own, so she laughed and nodded, agreeing with his statements, flickering back into silence so he could enjoy the rapture, the reverence, all on his own. Her eyes watched it for a while longer, appreciating the untamed portrait and tapestry, nestled and molded into its fervor, into its favor, for so many seasons. While he dashed into snowfall and flurries, she followed, altering her pace as he became steadily more entranced by the world around him, embarking further and further down the kingdom’s roots and trails, providing every ounce of hymn, every contortion of esteem and regard the mountains could have wanted.

He only seemed to cease, crouching back into apprehension, when the sentinels came into view. The nymph’s eyes ghosted towards their powerful statures, their great, grand heights, and saw security, sanctity, and sanctuary in their unfeeling stares, in their bold, brawny features, in their carved munitions and ignited armaments. What did others see? Barbarity? Savagery? Treachery? Were they emblems of the cloaks and daggers layered within the Basin? Were they banners and signs of a brave, potent force? Or were they signatures and designs of the beasts lacquered within the frozen enamel: sinister, nefarious, depraved monsters, clawed and rasped from all the rumors, all the stories, passed by curious infidels and miserable deceivers? She approached the painted stallion from behind, crooning under the puffs of warm breath fanning from her mouth, prospering rhapsody in the sullen, disconcerting hollow. “These are the sentinels.” Her maw reached out to touch his shoulder, a light, elegant caress, providing strength and endurance in the single stroke, then she and Imogen glided ever closer to the silent, sullen Colossus of Rhodes, standing completely beneath the left behemoth, so close she could feel the cold metal pervading the surroundings. Her speech continued, eyes light, poised, full of prose. “They protect us from any intruders.” She tilted her head, a pixie in moonbeams, in lunar radiance, regarding him with dulcet crescendos and tender resolution. “But you’ll be safe. They know you mean no harm.”

@[Ashamin]

He grew braver, and she watched, one more careful guardian, as he approached rock, rubble, and machine. The Songbird had grown used to the chimes, the bells, the whistles of the sentinel’s own flourishing tunes, the whirring musicality of a well-running machine, the silent gaze, the stoic resolve of the metallic motors. She could see the other beast’s mind whirling, a thousand queries and questions tumbling through his gaze, though she wasn’t sure if she was the right one to provide any answers – the duty should have fallen to the creator, Ulrik. Her righteous flutes spoke again, churning into the midst, breaking apart the hushed spheres and pondering venues, interrupting only to apply more details and particulars where they may be deemed necessary. “If you’re interested about their creation, perhaps you may find Ulrik, our Weaver and engineer.” Her smile broadened into a winsome, charismatic state, stare sweeping over the fringes of the twin contraptions all over again, listening for another moment where she could provide remnants and vestiges into the puzzling, befuddling world. Only when he’d pulled away, either satisfied by his abundant curiosity or eager to immerse himself deeper into the Basins’ fathoms, embarking into his own grin and unfurling a series of potent words, did Lena also become entrapped in a singular shiver.

The words should have seized her into a state of pure contentment, as if she were a shield, armor, a sword in the reach of day and night, bestowing, proffering, offering the keen edge of her blade, the acrimonious tinge of her phrases, the twisting, turning revolution of her own serpent prowess; but instead, they ached, dull and hollow. Something in her body sunk, perhaps her heart, perhaps her sentiments, plunging into a collapsing bounty, a loathsome stone, shattering away the gallantry of warmth. How many had she kept safe, and how many had she endangered on her travels? How many had she been incapable of saving (those that disappeared, vanished, vanquished - lost into shards and mist and slivers and fragments, never to been seen again)? How many had she sworn to protect, and led them into slaughter? Unholy images pressed against the back of her eyes, flailing scars and searing knives, dancing the fleeting, blinding nuances of failure, and she managed to engulf her denial in a series of gulps and swallows, trying to smother down the ghoulish howl of rebuttals and contradictions. What of Ode, the little child scarred by demons, murdered thereafter, and brought back to life by his mother – only to see her dead as he reawakened? What had she done for him? What of Roland, traipsing, following, her beck and call because she’d been frightened, because she’d been selfish, because she’d instigated a silly, insipid journey, and almost had both of them killed for her efforts? How safe would he have felt if left to collapse in a pile of ash, in a pit of embers? The nymph looked away as Imogen snorted along their connection, staring across the vivid horizon, the holy shroud, the vivid temple of ice and snow, and wondered of how little she’d done, and how many debts she owed. She mustered a thin smile, nowhere near the wonderful, grand, opulent one she’d granted him before, twisting her eyes towards the stars, the heavens, and the outline of the earth, bitterly consumed by the essence of her failures. Her tone betrayed naught, amused, bubbling, fervent, while her insides unraveled from the bout, the duel, of strengths and weaknesses. “Thank you.” She winked, either to comfort him or herself.

But a distraction waned in the distance, bright, gilded, golden under the surveying moon, and the Mender took the opportunity to be swallowed and riveted upon a new fascination, so the young stag couldn’t see all the embittered pieces of her soul. The newcomer seemed fresh and eager, no one she knew, no one she’d seen before, another face melding and molding into their chilling chasms, and Lena’s grin grew all over again, a scorching floret presiding in the house of cold-blooded mercenaries. The other femme appeared sweet, tranquil, dipping into amiable qualities, and the Mender wondered how she’d wandered from the depths of nowhere to land here, amongst the pieces of stone and ice. “A pleasure, Rexanna. I’m Lena, a Time Mender.” She paused, gaze maneuvering and motioning between the duo of newcomers, drinking away her fleeting melancholies, chasing after ruminations and calculations, searching and seeking how to integrate the similar beings. Her voice came across once more, gentle and dulcet, drifting and honeyed towards the femme, granting Ashamin the chance to make his own introductions, and flourishing the poetical towards the Basin itself, with its walls, fortresses, and wild ramparts. “Have you found the Basin to your liking?”

@[Ashamin] @[Rexanna]

Gradually, the apprehension wore away, settled back into its crawling, creeping, slithering compartments, tracing back over forlorn fibers, to rear its sadistic head again another day, another time, another place. She drank and consumed the airs, the wiles, the venues of simplicity and affability, poised aloft for all the world to see as beckoning, welcoming, amiable and delightful, hoping the realm could see a nightingale’s song and a swallow’s endeavors. She wanted to sear over Ashamin’s potent nerves, smother and alight them away, cast them into darker patches, heal and scorch and soothe all at once, when all she could do was smile, radiate, revere, the oaken forest and the clawing mountains, remain regal, fair, and majestic. So the nymph did just that, stood beneath the trembling spheres and the aurora’s moon, a sword, a shield, an awakening, blooming floret constantly damned, constantly shrouded, but stretching past the veil, past the cloak, past the daggers, to reclaim her happiness, her enlightenment, her purpose – whatever it was in that hour, in that echo. The gentleness, the fragility, the delicacy in which they all stepped caused her earnest heart to stomp and dismay the passages and rites of slivers and fragments, and while she listened at the pleasantries, at all the unspoken words and whims, her heart pressed and thudded into fervent, ardent reverie and rapture. She tilted her head in the slightest towards the newcomer Rexanna, the most minute of impish candor, suddenly delighted and enlightened by the intrigue dabbling over her notions, her sentiments, her rationale. “Not necessarily. Perhaps it was you all along.” The nymph winked again, imparted more of her warmth, her tenderness, along the gallows, the doldrums, the swarming, suffocating melancholy, unwilling to be trapped and smothered in its clenching, gnawing fist. Neither of them should be ensnared in the corridors of contempt either. Neither of them should be weary. Neither of them should be lost, driven down strange, altering paths, routes they never wanted to take. So what did they want? What did they crave? What did they yearn to see in the snow-covered lands? What was here for Ashamin? What kept Rexanna in its wake?

Lena always knew what kept her tied and tethered in bouts of devotion, because she loved, she loved, she loved, and would so until it split her apart.

Therein, her beneficent soul kindled, danced, waltzed, in pure apparitions, in whimsical cavalcades, in pure, luminescent visions. As Ashamin finished his introductions, as he settled back into nerves, as Rexanna gestured with blunt, blinding curiosity, Lena molded and fastened her ideas back into place, laced and wove them with charismatic ribbon, folded them over and over in beautiful, colorful taffeta until all they could do was listen, and become part of the melody. “Since you’re both new – and I’m sure infinitely intrigued – would you like a tour of the Basin?” There were so many things to be shared, proffered, and bestowed in the glistening facets of the chilling, wide-open world. Did they want to taste power? Did they want to see damnation? Did they want to be savored and relished by the beauty, by the dominance, by the supremacy reigning within? Or did they want to dabble within the surroundings, only look, only gleam, only polish upon what could have been, what could be seen – or live, away from the boundaries and into the flesh, awaken in the midnight valleys, in the Stygian springs, in the caverns, in the warrens, suddenly alive, fresh, renewed? She presided closer, away from the machines, from the watchful eyes of the sentinels and their cold, metallic embraces, into the shadowed bits of glamor and decadence, as if she’d been born into its threshold, and not a refugee of its wake so many seasons ago. Imogen maneuvered beside her, a beckoning chirp bubbling and brewing across her foxy presence, and they both suddenly loomed like sirens, promising serenity, offering tranquility, in the apertures of the frigid earth.


@[Ashamin] @[Rexanna]

As curiosity and endeavors entangled, she became another part of the background, a rose, a wildflower, a songbird nestled in the abyss of winter’s caress, blending and altering, morphing and quieting. She watched the two unfamiliar creatures reach for each other in their time of enigmas and mysteries, and settled into her amiable, charitable smile, a quiet, hushed witness until they required her voice, her presence, her sonnets. The routine was habitual, if a bit lonely, but she’d been so accustomed to merging, fusing, and mingling with the brush of snow, with the chasing, chilling winds, with the preserving peaks. Her eyes went back and forth between evening scenery and newfound companions, never pressing, never forcing, never coercing, allowing decisions to be stoked, kindled, and unfurled without the grinding, fractious fission of another’s motivations or ambitions. But to watch Ashamin, excited, animated, enlivened, was to understand the nature of joviality: he seemed uncontained, unraveled, at the notion of being within the frozen sanction. Wasn’t that what they all yearned and craved: to find a world where they belonged? To ensure purpose? To revitalize triumph? To strengthen themselves, their homes, their empires? To grow, to dream, to invoke and then inspire? Her grin widened, absorbed the tender notions of his radiance, of his reverie, and assembled them to new heights, painted brushstrokes of her own ebullience and elegance in fine, coated raptures, the twinkle of an eye, the soothing composure of her flowing limbs, shaking away the doldrums, the melancholies, of previous days, months, years, and seasons past. He wanted to be here – within the towering Basin, where power lurked and enduring beasts constantly waited, perennial rapiers and makeshift hearts. Her words flowed with gentle, winsome exuberance, a delicate morsel captured in the bottle and jars of the aurora’s everlasting bloom. “Of course you can.” She winked again, all the more emboldened, like fire, like earth, like snow, hastened into the elements by a series of contentment, softening the arch of her lilting movements, polishing its rhapsody, its grace, its holy minuets. “The Basin would be happy to have you.” Even in his gentleness, even in his shyness, even in his reserve, he could serve the way of their world in many different avenues, broaden his fledgling wings towards grander heights, launch a thousand ships and a million stars – it all depended on what he wanted to do, where he wanted to go, what he wanted to see. But first, she’d shown him the pathways, thread him through the avenues and corridors of ice, of rime, of majesty, of unspoken treachery and dastardly precipices. She could weave and lace him amidst the grandeur, the opulence, and the splendor, but he’d have to pick which door to open. She could erase his fear, but he’d have to learn to face it without her. She could bestow him shelter, but he’d have to discover how to hold, treasure, and refine it.

When Rexanna agreed upon their sojourn, it made the notion merrier. Her eyes shifted, glancing past the striking borealis, over the snowy peaks and dappled valleys, towards the ramparts and cliffs, along the pine and fir borders, amidst the caverns of mirrors and lights. Imogen chirped, nodding her head towards the nearby waters, and Lena’s smile shifted to a quieter, blooming stance. She inclined, she advanced, she embarked into the murmurs and croons of their glacial abyss, of their Siberian paradise, an essence of refinement and subterfuge beneath the wake of all their blinding hues and fleeting fragments; a guide, a muse, a beacon, until they found their own way. Her voice lifted in keen notes, nightingale wings, lullaby compositions, magnificent, gilded rhapsodies, a mellifluous invitation embarking into the wind, extending towards their makeshift party of newcomers and augured resolves. “To the unfreezing lake first?” Then her hooves stretched, in a merry dance, in a gentle sway, in a soft, dulcet edge, towards the small, enchanted parcel of the sea – the ivory kitsune chirruping alongside, calling to their pristine brethren to follow.

@[Ashamin]

Especially with friends - Lena honored the statement with a mighty grin and a stalwart beat, because in all her glorious days, months, seasons, and years along the winding threshold of Helovia, it was friendship she’d cherished and had taken away from her so many times. She’d opened her heart and let the world pour in its woes, its melancholies, its ill wills, smiled at the anxieties, the lunacy, the madness, settled potent remnants, cast aside weary shades, listened, witnessed, and drummed vivid hallelujahs. The sylph provided over and over again, a selfless, enduring foil to the manic pulses and the wicked staccatos, proffering and bestowing light in the dim, shadowy conjectures of Stygian pursuits and plots. But time always proved a bewitching, enticing factor; the world shifted, individuals disappeared, and she was stuck on rime, on ice, on minarets and towers, with no way to follow, with no way to see where they’d all gone. Aurelius, the golden stag with a heart equally hued, Poppy, a long-lost child on the brink of thorns and nestles, the refugees of the old, old Edge, still immersed in casings of caverns and catacombs, and the list could spiral on and on, dusty, curling, coiling back upon itself. Almost every gesture she made was towards camaraderie, amiability, benevolence, and sometimes she was rewarded with laughter, with giggles, with merriment that gleamed just beyond the surface, potential for bonds, for alliances, for attachment, and she rejoiced in those junctures and instances. Then, they’d be gone, vanished into the air, fettered, tangled, frayed – sometimes as if they’d never been companions, as if they’d never see one another before, and she never understood what had happened or what had changed.

Why couldn’t she keep the things she coveted the most? Had she erred in some way? Had she not given them enough? Had she not brandished something they wanted, something they craved? When they spilled out their sorrows, when they spoke of their wishes, their dreams, their hopes and invocations, did she not entrust the right advice? Then, the gleaming potency dawned on her, a wave of indignity flustering and alarming the shards of her movements, the spellbinding vestige of her motions.

She never told her own secrets, and maybe that’s why she remained in the arts of light, airy, delicate, fanciful moments, because then she didn’t have to spill out every enigma, every mystery, and stay as she always yearned to be. No one would know of barbs, needles, jaunts and jibes, no one would know of her worthlessness, no would know that beneath her plain form, her unassuming presence, there were more deceptions and treacheries, more condemnations and paradoxes, more quandaries and upheavals. The Songbird could sing and dance and waltz without having to give away the furtive essences, the specious designs, the covert ruses and schemes that made her who she was. Perhaps that was why so few knew her beyond Time Mender - she healed, she smiled, she laughed, then she sauntered away, never pressing, never reaching, never delving any deeper, afraid of what they might see, what they might find when they peered closer.

So – could she do that now? With Ashamin? With Rexanna? With the new blood who didn’t know her beyond a name and a title, beyond a grin and a heart? Or would it be another pattern, another exploit into brushing journeys, barely a stroke on the horizon, barely a caress on the breeze, easily forgotten, easily tossed aside?

The sylph wanted to show them many things, but she wasn’t sure if her concealments were one of them. She looked back, tossed her head in a content, serene motion, then settling again into her pretenses, into her beneficence, reaching out past the borders and into the center of their kingdom, unwinding a midnight sway, twirl, and whirl amidst the autumn atmosphere. The moon carved a beautiful nuance within the pool’s rippling depths, the aurora reflected its tranquil, unsettled, wild elegance, and the world remained poised, composed, layered and lacquered in its bewitching, enticing haze. The Basin always endured, and so would she, so would they, so would those strong enough to stand in its sanction. She stopped when they arrived at the soft embankment, gesturing towards the wilderness, the framework of its chilling endeavors, the sentiments of old blending into the new. Imogen chose a rock to nestle upon, chirping and calling out into the Stygian evening; and Lena’s ears pricked, curiosity and senses unfolding into the vestiges. What could she say to entreat them into this wondrous palace? What could she do to ensure they yearned to remain? What could she do to maintain their happiness, their satisfaction, in the sovereign they’d chosen? Her words unfolded across the reservoir, vivid and luminescent, harmonious and mellifluous, a nymph nestled in her elements and sharing them amongst her brethren, delighted, charmed, and enchanted. “Here it is! Even in the depths of winter, it never solidifies.” Pointing with her maw towards the right, she indicated another close landmark, an opening in the mountainside, an unseen mirror resting inside. “The Haruspex’s cave is nearby, where our resident oracle speaks to the God of Time, our deity.”

Would they be inquiring? Would they be enthralled? Would they want to stay?

@[Ashamin] @[Rexanna]