Lena
I'm buried and covered peaceful under millions of stars

They chose a weaver’s dance, simple, finessed, graceful, and elegant, finite in its display and wares – maneuvering amidst the heavenly bounties and the deity’s wake, pulsing and pervading the loam with a quiet, serene air. There was no purpose to the cavalcade, to the minuet, to the tranquil bolero: merely a shifting, a shaping, of composed repose in a world full of treachery and deceit. The Mender might have caved into a ruinous path of morose thoughts and rancorous sentiments, but her goals lifted them higher and higher into the air, so the pair, one sylph, one fox, waltzed and twirled to the beat of hope and aspirations, morality and virtue, casting away all the darkening shades threatening to veil their gaze. Neither were immune to the state of the world, to the savage, sinister rubble and disaster plaguing over kingdoms, empires, and sovereigns, ricocheting across worlds and thrones. Both had embarked too many times down wayward trails and hazardous depths, encased in agony, carving acrimony, but the choice afterwards was always the same, begging, yearning, coveting, and craving the woebegone trace of peace. So instead of meandering down the nettles, the thorns, the sticks and stones, they chased the highlights of the future, the promises of tomorrow, bridging gaps, singing sonnets, building and brimming perseverance amidst the belligerent throngs of war, the brutal hymns of entropy. Cranium lifted, eyes narrowed, limbs crisp, divining a dulcet step, a soft beat, they sketched the horizon and whispered amidst the wide, open color, the vast, gilded plain, the radiance of Frostfall bearing down upon them – chiseling the puffs of wintry air, glorious and harmonious with the wholesome essence of simply being alive. While they moved, shifted, sculpted, they breathed in the curious, foreign entities of other sights and sounds, an awakening unknown of labyrinths, of warrens, of strangers locked in the same midst and terrain; the fairy simply had to arch one brow towards the ivory kitsune in order to hasten the singular response.

The duo followed two light traces of anonymity, names and faces not registered into their memories or images, wandering over the cool terrain as regal entities, as noble ramparts, as pixies and cretins. Mere snippets later, Lena’s stare fixated upon the beings, intrigued and riddles with a series of questions almost immediately: for the beast, winged and glowing, was a beautiful, incandescent sight altogether (reminding her of the stars in the sky, the moons’ brilliant, lunar rays, the mysterious, enigmatic torch of its fleeting grace), the bundle at his feet was even more curious and exotic. A newfound companion? A tiny glimmer, a glorious spark, a hint, a brushstroke, of what was to come? Foreboding and foreshadowing greatness, wild with abandon? Afraid they’d be unwelcome, perhaps an intrusion, she sang from the shadows, not daring to advance, encompassing a wide grin, a beautiful smile, over the folds of her harmonious embraces. “Congratulations!” Her gaze flickered to the tiny bird nestled beneath its bonded’s protection, and Imogen chirped a serene welcoming, fluttering by the Mender’s hooves, wishing to tread closer but refraining from lack of permission.