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]