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.