Torn and shambled from the noxious plumes of ravenous, soulless ramparts, they were nestled in the quiet sanctuary of a lower cave, curled against a cold wall. Imogen breathed in sleepy conjectures, making soft snores in the echoing throngs of silence – and Lena did naught but think, staring out into the burden of snow and soot and wind, glancing and glaring from the shackles of her shelter into the decadent frames of absolution and melancholy. Though she’d promised not to sink back into the crawling, corrupting forces of despair, a piece of her was always nettled and molded into the remnants, into the tethers, of melancholy and affliction, as if she couldn’t hack away those broken, wounded chains away from her frame; they followed her wherever she went, powerful, potent, distracting, eerie sentiments of a haunting sphere – a whisper, a breath, a caress of the infernal, of the damned, and despite the luminescent light she cast, there was always a shadow lurking within her frame. She heaved a molten sigh and watched it billow around her in the shape of a twisting, loathsome wraith, and she struggled to close her eyes against its layers and lacquer, forgo, forget, pretend, settle back into fineries and wares of divinity, of virtue, and no more depravity, no more wounds, no more traps and deceptions. When the Songbird’s gaze reawakened, her senses were distracted, fettered, clawed against towards something else looming beyond their chosen corridors. Her glance narrowed, her forelegs uncurled, and quietly, carefully, she raised her frame from the chilly floor, sneakily crafting movements and motions meant to leave the slumbering vixen to her own devices, and curled her head out into the open.

A cold blast of wind drowned her sentiments in a brutal, scalding laceration; no doves, no nightingales, no sparrows were meant to be out in the storm. Flakes of vivid, pure snow scattered across her face, into her forelock, collected along her lashes, until she was forced to retreat. Lena took a few hesitant steps backward, and furrowed her brow at the notion that something still remained out there, searching, seeking, pondering: waiting. For what? her mind fathomed – what could be out in the squall, out in the ravaging, tormenting wind? All at once, perhaps impulsive, perhaps mindless, perhaps entirely too audacious and bold for her own good, she lowered her head and extended the rest of her frame out into the bitter furls of ice and belligerence.

If she were not a chosen token of the mountain, she may have been lost to its secrets forever; nearly conquered by its dominating forces, the nymph was forced to keep her skull down, eyes narrowed, speculating into the snow. For a few riveting gestures, she aimed to spark a single sonnet, calling out into the broken, weary hallelujahs: “Hello?”, but unsure if they were noticed, heard, or drowned in the unrelenting, remorseless turbulence, she continued on, determined and stalwart to find whatever beast roamed within the domination.

No sooner had she offered siren songs, did she nearly bump into a blackened, Stygian soul – only noticing a vision of emerald before ceasing her movement abruptly. For all her regard in the blundering wails and the remorseless snow, it appeared to be a fellow equine, but she couldn’t bear any other recognition. Shaking her head from side to side, ridding herself of cold cobwebs and filling once more with ardent convictions, her sweet, serene voice pulsed, pulled, and pervaded from across the short distance. “Oh goodness, I don’t think you should be out in this!” She matched her words with a smile, free of judgment (because wasn’t she challenging her reverence too, marching against her maker?), poised and aloft even if the other being couldn’t see it. “I’m Lena – would you like to find some shelter?” Thereafter, the naiad gestured back towards her chosen cave, now just a forlorn shape and shell in the icy, ivory void.

@[Mortuus Nox]

She listened amongst the gale, the wild, winter winds, standing firm and strong amidst their petulant bellows and agonizing decibels, twisting her ears in every direction to catch the clamor of his voice (Mortuus Nox; no one she’d heard of or knew). Remaining within her pleasant demeanor, in the resonating, pulsing warmth, she fully intended to begin maneuvering along the incline of snow and ice, chisel their way back to her current shelter to await the halt, the cease, the pause in the cold weather’s unrelenting possession, when the stag’s movements appeared to stop altogether. Curious, constantly seeking knowledge and absolution, her cranium swiveled back toward the shadowed figure, and a shuddering sense of foreboding rankled over her frame, maddening, sinking, torturous and sinuous. Like an unwinding snake, a maneuvering asp, a serpent in the grass, a plunging knife cut through her mind and swept amidst the cold, brewing glamour, a vicious, paralyzing unknown – and she didn’t know what to make of it, how to react, what to do, or truly understand where it began or ended. Her eyes, usually fervent, eager, warm and cajoling, narrowed to a shrewd, wily, cunning length, might have matched Imogen’s waiting, foxy gaze back at the cave, may have signaled a warning, a sheen of potency layered and lacquered beneath her resolute, stalwart, valiant existence – drawing to the forced smile, the wild, untamed shakes, of Nox. She’d survived in the midst of savagery, of brutality, of chaos and bedlam for too long to be lanced and quartered by the unknown (a weighty, overbearing presence lodged somewhere nearby, contained, bottled, trapped and ensconced, threatening, indulging, vicious and vehement), but may have been staring death in the face – her stance grew a little less floret and a little more rigid, bound and taut with brutal songs and noxious sonnets, seizing the menacing, intimidating grasp of the enigmatic and plunging some of her own into the mix, the Songbird’s measure of deterrent. Not all fairy, not all fey, not all whimsical dreams and earthy laughter; her gaze swept into the shadows ranging over their frames, along the wispy tendrils of snow and ice, unsure of what lay beyond; voice crossing into the wilderness moments thereafter, calm and composed despite the anxious thrum, the apprehensive rush of her heart and mind. “Are you all right?” Perhaps he’d felt the strange, phantom pulse too, had taken it as madness or agony? Uncertainty was a heavy shroud, a toxic veil, and her eyes traced over to the chosen cavern, snug, safe, a sanctum, a haven, a sanctuary amongst the storm – wondering if it could protect and shield them from a course of devilry as well.

@[Mortuus Nox]

The Songbird didn’t fully understand his disposition; brutal and barbaric one moment, apologetic and rueful the next - conspired and contorted into a mysterious, enigmatic distortion. She found herself openly staring for a few stray moments, attempting to piece together the remnants of darkness and the beginnings of light, studying and examining the few articles and particles she’d managed to tether together. When he obliged mere snippets, when he conveyed the reasoning into the swallowing, avaricious gleam, into the tyrannical feeling bursting through the air, her brows crinkled, her frown emboldened, and a sharp prick of Imogen’s awareness simmered near their destination. Fearing a sentiment of rudeness crowding over the silence, she bowed her head against the cold wind and managed the slimmest of smiles within the corner of her lips, calling out over the rippling tirades as they soldiered on through the midnight squall. “Have you tried having your anomaly fixed?” Her curiosity sprung between cordial sands of inquisition and honeyed wholesomeness, charitable and virtuous, layering benedictions despite the hollowed veil shrugging over her shoulders, a healer’s warmth despite every forewarning, every hint, every line drawn amongst doldrums and frailties. If he were to be in constant pain, surely he would wish for it to cease and desist – unless it was something untouchable, intangible, a conviction laced and layered beyond a mender’s power. There were things they couldn’t assuage, soothe, or heal (the finality of death, the overcoming swing of the reaper’s scythe, because she’d tried, she’d sang, and she’d watched as naught but the last breath, the last heartbeat, chiseled in a familiar being’s chest). If his grin were any indication, perhaps it was truly nothing at all –a touch, a caress, a stroke of darkness burgeoning and blooming in all of them, not yet conquered or dismayed. She pressed no further, unless he wished, unless he warranted, unless he permitted her to examine, delve, or attempt the trial of salvation, and the nymph scaled her sights towards the twinkling light of their journey, rummaging and picking her way through the snow.
 
The ivory kitsune met them with a brief nod of her head and an uncanny look directed towards her bonded; Lena responded with a cherubic smile and no lack of grace, forging any misgivings out of her mind and relenting to a beatific enterprise. Elegant and poised amongst the rock, rubble, and ruin, she maneuvered past the glittering facades of icicles, stretching into the aperture with polished, blossoming finesse, a floret amongst the stones and monoliths. Her head bowed and extended inward, granting him passage between the growing embers of the pale vixen’s newly varnished fire, embers crackling, snapping at the last, dry twigs, casting fiery glances along the herbs tucked and nestled towards the back of the caverns, assembled for any given opportunity. Her smile captivated and cajoled again, vocals ringing in a mellifluous tone, resembling bells of spring, vestiges of the oncoming season, curled and coiled away for the near future. “Please make yourself at home.”

 

The nymph’s eyes glanced delicately towards the opposite beast, studying, examining, and analyzing the reaction to her inquiry. His sigh was evidence enough of trials and tribulations, a series of discoveries, discernments, and suffering twisted and layered through his life; her smile dimmed for a fraction, ears listening, catching, the enamel distorted between his words and phrases, amongst venomous contortions and streamlined torrents. If the pain had grown, dauntless and ferocious, what was the cause? What was the root, the meaning, behind the feverish, brutal armaments condemning the Stygian stag? What happened if he was maimed severely during a battle, during a war, during an onslaught outside of his own making? How had he come to live with it for so long? Was he the same as so many of them upon the mountain: daring, enduring, and persevering, fervent on their desire to live, to maintain, to press and soldier on? Her lips pressed together in a thin line, and she glanced towards the open aperture, then to the flickering embers of Imogen’s fire, brushing a subtle glance towards the ivory vixen. The fox, for her part, managed a calm equilibrium, remained complex and composed by the light of the swirling blaze, puzzling over the architecture of this newfound rune. Try?, the little kitsune muttered across their silent connection, as if there were any doubt at all that Lena’s profound determination, stalwart, staunch, and steadfast presence wouldn’t have fought tooth and nail for the mere endeavor – so her eyes peered back towards his, strong and resolute, speckled with the honeyed undertaking of florets, of blooms, designated and designed for tenacity and defiance. Surely there was no harm in attempting the task? Would the ticking of her hours, of her minutes, of her seconds, bring further infidel persuasion? Would her lyrics and sonnets announce more foreboding, more overwhelming pain? She never doubted the art of compassion, the will of virtue, or the capacity of conviction. “If you’d like, I can try.” If permitted, she would sing, she would court, she would anoint a symphony, and if not, she’d continue where they started, and wonder how far he’d fall, how he’d spring from the fiendish wreckage, how he’d prevail when melancholy clasped him again.
 
But then he distracted her – prospering his eyes towards the back of the cave, where nestled herbs dried from their wintry haze, and she was all aflutter again, a butterfly on the wind, and poised down into the avenues of dancing, flickering light. She arched further into the cave and stared upon the illustrious wares as if they were more precious than life: a smile stretched back across her mouth in equal fervor, bending her maw towards the painted leaves. “Healing, mostly. It depends on the plant.” Her muzzle extended along white petals and daisy exposition, drawing her eyes towards Mortuus Nox for the briefest of moments. “Like this chamomile. It can be used for all sorts of things, including inflammation, insomnia, and ulcers.” Her stare pinpointed back to another series of tender shoots, lined with fuzzy stems and light, purple flowers. “Or peppermint! It can assist in any digestion issues, and we can use its oil for muscle aches.” Given a lengthier period of time, she would have spiraled across the entire wall, calling and rattling off names of the herbs, their uses, their foundations, but a portion of her soul worried the visitor may not have invested appeal in the subject, and she didn’t dare bore him. Instead, she traced her gaze back along his features, and tilted her head in curiosity all the more. “Do you have an interest in mending?”



 

“Of course.”
 
She smiled, she reigned supreme, she dominated with fairy presence and fey essence, stared over the subject with shattering burdens and incomprehensible pain, then hoped and prayed she’d somehow be able to help him. Queen of sparrow song and laurel crowns, she conjured both hallelujahs and breadths of time, ignited them through her chest, a fluttering bird, a maelstrom of hours, a searing, scorching presence of sonnets and arias, sweeping hands and idle moments, ticking and borrowing and snatching, mellifluous, ardent, and echoing through the chambers. Compassion was a conviction, stored and recited and ignited past the warmed fronds of herbs and spices, amidst the gallivanting wind and snow, within the chilling confines of winter’s splendor or the dashing, flickering embers paying homage to a borrowed element: she closed her eyes and dreamed of a mind without sorrow, without melancholy, without frowns and worries, without deadened features immersed in affliction and regret. She thought of a passionate soul taut and rigid from their history, from their rue, from their rancorous efforts, and she imagined them whole, flaws forgotten, mistakes eager to be made anew. The maiden, the nymph, the sylph, basked in the alms and arms of her potency, until the last dovetail warbled and the last stroke of seconds and hours passed through the caverns’ wares, opening her eyes to regard him again.
 
The Songbird dreaded the unknown; his wounds were not outward, but from within, and she couldn’t possibly know if she’d been successful, if his lacerations were cleared, unless he spoke, unless he claimed, they’d been wiped away. So, she only breathed, catching the puffs of air and relinquishing them back into the fold, away from her trances and her absolutions, waiting, staying, remaining poised and aloft in the clear, fleeting transience of virtue and benedictions. Her gaze regarded him carefully, and Imogen’s crafty stare remained sequestered upon his flesh too, until the mage spoke and grinned all over again. “Let me know if it didn’t work. Perhaps we could find another remedy for you.”
 
Then she listened, cordial and quiet, as he marveled at the scent of the herbs, as he explained how he’d come to find dedication to this sanctum, this art. She knew of wars, she knew of battles, she’d crossed swords and hunted through fog, and still contained the bitter shame of it – but he wanted to amend, wanted to find salvation, wanted to alleviate all those torn days and shadowed seasons. Her smile faded, for a just a few precious seconds, crossing over her lips as a withering whim, capricious and mercurial, festering away at the hint of brutalities she’d displayed, she’d concocted, she’d enacted. But when her voice rang through the hall, it was just as bright, just as merry, just as beautiful and charming as it’d been before – without the barbs, the thorns, the nettles pressed around her throat. “One doesn’t need to be the kindest of hearts nor the sweetest of souls to heal. But they want to help, soothe, mend, and assuage the pain of others.” Eyes sparked back to his, grin repainted, intact. “Your willingness is already one trial triumphed. Would you like to experience some of our efforts, and see if its to your liking?”