She wandered in a fog, listless, languid, lacking motivation and purpose. Her days were spent idling and wiling away the sun, moon, and stars, piecing together nothing and everything. Some hours left her to compose the saddest of songs, morose requiems and downcast laments, and some instances she hummed a string, a strain, of hallelujahs, or bright, cheery jaunts, but naught seemed to stick. So, on the sparks and winds of Orangemoon, she simply traced the abyss of silence.
 
Her noble head shifted through the clearing, the copse, the gateway, on occasion, pilfering amidst her senses for a sign of life, while Imogen followed with a hesitant air, features tilted in rapt concern for her bonded – because for Lena to be without her serenity, without her tranquility, without her lovely hums and mellifluous tunes...
 
But the Songbird persisted instead of pondering, wondering, and sketching over the thoughts clouding over her mind. They maneuvered past boulders and stones, moss and lichen, puttering over crisp, fallen leaves, putting movement, action, and purpose past the art of musing and contemplation, afraid of what she’d discover diving deeper and deeper into her deliberations. What was she anymore? They moved at a faster pace, sweeping through the corners and annals and corridors of the fall-riddled world, listening to the babbling brook and the birds who’d not yet migrated to warmer valleys, piecing together a notion of someone nearby – someone familiar, someone recognized, and that coveted her crown for a length of time, attempting to puzzle over who it could be.
 
Then, when her gaze locked upon the figure of a spotted dame and her deer nearly blended into the surroundings; blankets of dust and ivory, emerald eyes, old, woven pieces of ice and snow buried below a soft, beautiful heart. Lena’s features quickly altered, morphed, transformed from the denizens of melancholy, bland, distorted, ill at ease, to a rich, bright reflection, an elegant, emblazoned smile, a warm, amiable quality blurring the line between heartache and contortions. “Frost Fyre!” she called into the void with her clear, singsong vocals, with her beatific grace, renewing and pushing past the darkened sentiments and the depressing jaunts for a chance, for an opportunity, to reunite with a child of her home, with a daughter of the Basin. The honeyed mare grew closer and closer still, until they were separated by a mere yard or two, still grinning, still reaching, still imparting the guidance, the sagacity, the bestowal of her benevolence, even in the loss of time. “Are you well?” Curiosity struck a heavenly chord, but nothing was voiced, not yet, even as the queries spiraled and ricocheted and pulsed. Where had she been? What had she discovered? Did something make her leave (and did that reason trickle to others…)? Did something make her return (and would more follow in her stead)? Imogen offered her support amidst their connection, smiling and coercing, granting a chirp towards the fawn – and they waited, familiarity christening, anointing, a brewing of hope within their chests.

She always wondered why they left – why they were pulled away from ice and snow, away from caverns and beauty, away from promised creeds and bright ventures. What made them flee? What made them shirk a land they’d cherished? What made them venture far, far away from all the lives they’d salvaged, beloved, and protected? And while she was never daring enough to allow the questions past her lips and into the raw splendor, she still yearned to know – because so many times she’d been broken, beaten down, hastened off into sorrow and damnation – and still, she stayed, held in the court of chilling, northern winds and rancorous filaments, feeling for a chance, a purpose, to showcase why she belonged, why she held everything dear when the world threatened to turn over and devastate them all. Her eyes traced over Frost Fyre’s figure, grown and able, capable and strong, daring to ask what she’d done in her time away, what she’d seen, what she’d heard, what adventures she’d scorched while this one invoked new Gods and then destroyed them – leaving new lands and blood in the grass. Instead, because she always whittled away those burning queries, those riotous declarations, the nymph heralded a simple statement, smiling through the torches of light, enigmas, and the unknown. “I hope your journeys proved rewarding,” and then she glanced down to Imogen, so no one else could see the sadness in her eyes, staring deep into her kitsune’s and becoming restored from the glimmering glow of kindness wrapped inside them; her hopes prospered for the smallest of seconds (because if Frost Fyre could return, maybe others would too, like golden brigands with blue eyes and generous hearts). Then the sylph turned back again, resplendent and jovial, piecing together a mask she knew very well – Imogen continued the masquerade, swinging multiple tails in the fluttering bits of cold wind, chirruping at the cerndyr as it advanced and showed its impeccable form.
 
“The Basin’s well.” She stopped there, attempting to decipher how long it’d been since the other femme moved around their glacial kingdom, how long it’d been since her hooves touched upon snow and rime, when the last throne had fell and when new crowns had been placed. Her words fell like gentle water, mellifluous and strong, bridging the gap of months and seasons spent outside their great, glacial walls. “Deimos still leads, and he is joined by Thranduil and Hotaru.” She proceeded thereafter in a haze, remembering the abyss, the treachery, the deceit, clenching her jaw and releasing her frustration, her rancor, over the ways they were always betrayed. “You missed an exciting time – the Gods recently found new lands, but each time they did, it brought forth another divine being to destroy.” Murder, mayhem, and calamity – curiosity had struck annihilating blows and landed them in patches of enmity; they’d all combined into a mass of violence and disaster, ruin and abomination, and she didn’t know how many had savored the moments, or how many had simply stared in horror. “Our Gods are safe,” she assured, smiling hesitantly, the grin a little less bright, a little less radiant, “But I don’t know what it all means.” Her stare went towards the trees, then the sky, then the clouds and hidden stars, struggling to decipher why and when and how they’d all come to be in such disarray. The nymph’s voice and stare returned to the frosted dame snippets later, a harmonious lilt of beauty and strife, daring to dream of riches and tranquility after the rupture of repose. “I can take you home, if you’d like.”