She whistled in the wind, part of Birdsong and part of winter, flickering away the wiles of dust and snow and burdens, folding past the fountains of warmth and radiance, casting her eyes away from the melted paragons of arcane ice. Like a torch, like a flame, like a bird scattering its bells, its tunes, its notes, she fluttered and flickered, drawn over the ebb and flow of seasons, tracing along the foundations of ancient stone and carved rubble, channeling the finesse of pebbles and monoliths; admiring their solidity, their grace. She drank in the alteration of vestiges and temperatures, dazzled by the embossed horizon and the shimmering sunrise, watching the waves of dark, Stygian hues give way to gold, amused by the ethereal breaths, by the puff of clouds, by the distant peaks and valleys never touched, never tainted. Only thereafter did she find herself meandering and wandering through the tundra, beckoning and clambering for new sonnets and stanzas, serenading the whims and world with her voice, her hymns, her laughter, sprinkling it throughout the dew and trying to match the flying warbles as they poised and danced over her ears. Sometimes, she sketched over the tiny leaflets and the miniature petals, only plucking a few for a promised garden and a glowing sanctuary, smiling, grinning, to herself and to the trees, gathered in their veils and their masks and their guardianship. The little, slender nymph likely would have stayed the morning entrusted and enfolded in the rush of the sublime, chasing after forgotten stars and longlost banners, pondering over the riches of spring and the Hades’ hold of winter, had her ivory kitsune not come bounding through the tall grasses and the spun shade, chirping, enthusiastic, launching over spider webs and clawing at roots.
 
Summons! her fox voice sprang between their connection, and the mare’s brow arched in inquisition, for there was no outcry of calamity, no hellish throng of alarm, no monsters in the keep, and no panic whittled across the vixen’s features. Had something else gone awry? Her eyes narrowed a fraction, and Imogen only grinned a familiar, cunning exposition, so the sylph, the fairy, the fey, was forced to follow with hardly any information and only the most precarious of queries. Armed with herbs and petals, she joined the lingering march across frost and dew, fixing her stare upon Imogen’s pale tails ghosting through narrow trails or the beings nestled in the distance.
 
Her pace increased with her curiosity, maneuvering and coasting upon the breeze and the call of finches, brushing past the lake and hot springs, as she came to realize the gilded Lord and the sea-girl were waiting outside the healers’ cave – perhaps where she might have been, had she not been Romani and lured by beguiling sights, wondrous sounds. The mare’s approach was made with polite, genuine rapture, bobbing her head downwards towards Thranduil and the lovely Tiamat, extending a gracious harks over the sweeping tides of Birdsong. “Good morning, Lord Thranduil, Tiamat.” The beam of inquiry bloomed and blossomed along her tongue, and she dearly would’ve loved to search and pry and guess over the reasons for the visit, but was restless at the sight of the ocean maiden, suddenly reminded of a notion she’d had in mind. “How lovely to see you – I’d actually intended to seek you out today,” and her smile grew along the incline of her lips towards the blue-hued femme, before dipping her attention back towards the sovereign, ever unsure of his intentions. He caught her off-guard in the strangest of ways, but she could never truly understand why or how; perhaps he was made of too much wile, too much guile, too much of everything in between. “You needed me, sir?”