Lena should have learned long ago not to have expectations towards herb gatherings. Some had been ignored and taken to just herself, wandering across vast plains and holy valleys in search of potential ways to soothe those who never realized she existed. Another had been promising success, only to be riddled with wraiths and phantoms (Kahlua, ravaged and dangerous, two words that should have never described a friend – smoldering, wild, chasing and rampaging and demented-). This one held illustrious assurance, because there were so many wonderful beacons within their empire now, and she wasn’t alone in the quest for salvation, for sanctum, for absolute belief in their tasks, soothing the fallen, helping the damned, believing, believing, believing the world could still be healed.
 
But then again, she hadn’t yet met Demothi.
 
As he approached, she was sure his heart was in the right place, a newcomer with their matching ideals, with their winsome graces and their affectionate zeal for life, but the indulgent, charismatic grin crossing over his features set her immediately on edge – and she truly couldn’t understand why. She became a little more rigid, her eyes no longer glancing on plants, but upon him and wondering what he reminded her of (a cat who’d eaten a canary, a wolf in sheep’s clothing?). The words, sparking across the void, sharp enough Lena presumed everyone could hear, and suddenly all eyes were on her, drove her into such a balm of discomfort that at first she wasn’t sure what to do. She’d received compliments before, and she wasn’t conformed to a prig or prudish nature, but something felt entirely off and disassembling (because his coat wasn’t golden and his title wasn’t a brigand, because he didn’t know her at all?). Imogen growled amidst their connection, but Lena dismissed it – she could handle the situation without the need for the kitsune’s intervention. The sense of foreboding pricked against her spine, and she laced her defense with the same brilliant smile he’d commented upon, calling upon serenity, tranquility, and boldness to kindle her defiance, her deflection. “Alas, I would hate to distract you from your work, Demothi.” She slid, she slithered, away from him, putting distance and diversions between them, sifting through grass a few yards to the left (pausing to glance at Enna for a few moments, her eyes widened, her brows arched, a shrug to her shoulders and a shake to her head), calling out to him in a careless array. “Oh, I don’t have a favorite yet – all of them are so useful.” The femme almost anointed Tiamat with another toss of her cranium, not wishing to grant encouragement, not seeking any more attention from anyone else, but a strange, unfamiliar noise beckoned her senses instead.
 
It sounded like a cough – loud and raucous, and the Songbird lifted her head from the leaves of some yarrow, inclining and rotating her ears towards the sound. Had any of her fellow healers been ailing? Her inspection of their frames told her otherwise, and the delving of curiosity flooded through her sentiments – so much so that Imogen rambled ahead, following the reverberation of the commotion, ivory tails sticking through tall blades, and Lena contorted her own path at an ardent walk. To find a wolf, with a plant on their back, had not been imagined, surmised, or predicted, but the nymph had learned to accept those things by now. Instead of laughing, or giggling at the strange scene, she lowered her head towards the wolf, and the intriguing flytrap (what a useful plant!), and prospered gentle, nurturing tones, though she wasn’t sure who required their assistance (the canine for carrying the plant, or the plant for some pressing reason). “How may we help you?”