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]