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

The Songbird snagged bliss where she could find it, in between the hollowed hills and the sanctioned sins, nestled and tucked and stranded in long, tender tassels, trying desperately not to break it across sharp edges and keen blades. She’d raked them along too many thorns, too many nettles, too many blunt, coarse barbs and spines recently, and the flaws, scars, and remnants of savagery had far outweighed and outlasted her benedictions and reveries. But, instead of meandering down into the doldrums or melancholy fibers of her latest adventures, she drank in breaths of cool, morning air and watched the clouds of warmth billow from her nares, traced the fine, poignant moments of peace and repose amongst the wide aperture of her chosen cavern, and sang sweet, soothing balms beneath her trepidations. Together, she and Imogen, basking in the gray vision of dawn’s brushstroke transition, stared over the ramparts, across the fortifications, watchers and witnesses to the sights, the sounds, of time’s everlasting overtures (promising and promising something else, something new, something wild). They might have stayed, captured and bottled in listless, languid particles of hours and space and fragile, infrequent moments of tranquility, of serenity, had the pair not heard voices, heard movements, rippling near the hot springs – figures seeking refuge from the chill.

A series of motions and sentiments rippled between the bonded as a silent, stoic undercurrent – Imogen’s tilted, vulpine head leering in the thought of rest, of relaxation, for her Mender who’d not seen solitude, who’d not grasped sanctuary for several moons, and Lena’s ever-alluring smile, gypsy, vagabond wishes, pixie grandeur, fairy essence coiling and contorting the wishes of the other. Too determined, too fixated on one resolution after another, time’s naiad won the brief battle, leaving Imogen following her wake through snow and rime. The belle surged forward, racing for the rapture of comrades, of brethren, of those known and those completely, wholly unfamiliar – delving into curiosity, into speculation, curling and coiling inquiries over veils of horrors and deceits. Movements were unhinged, wild and graceful, finessed through the toils of perilous glaciers and treacherous, slick glaze as if she’d perfected the art of maneuvering across danger eons before (over and over again, a regal performance, an established choreographing of speciousness, persistence, and phoenix dreams).

Their arrival was far later than the others, but her eyes, warm, amiable, kind and hastened into ardent benevolence, sought each and every figure, tossing them a grand bow, a bob of her head tucked against her chest. She stepped very lightly, pressing into the snow as air, as soft, dulcet petals, meant for the spring but constantly colliding with winter’s injustice. Imogen chirped an eager salutation of her own, and as they maneuvered closer to the miniature gathering, remained posed at Lena’s forelegs, an ivory, stalwart sentinel, a vehement guardian of fey. Her nostrils quivered only slightly, inquisition floating between their connections as the Songbird tried to hold back a small bout of laughter. Smell something. Mint? Is it mint?

Perhaps it came from one of the most distinct members of the tiny throng, for he was vivid, striking, and exotic. Was he the newly named Weaver, joining the Engineer for their lengthy projects? How on earth had he assembled such a pelt, such a coat? And the other femme, hadn’t she been announced as the next Corporal (reminding her of stars, of constellations, of the midnight sky hoisted for all to see, like a perfect specimen, meant for the Basin and its aurora powers)? Each individual, especially Rexanna (the only familiar being in the group), were given a broad, enveloping grin, a blessing, an invocation, written in beneficence and reverence. “Good morning!”