Lena continued to marvel at the creation, at the corporeal, tangible existence of something that was once nothing more than an idea, a thought, in their heads. Now it was glass, real, grown from mist and chill, blossomed from allies and armistices, and she tilted her head from side to side in ample inspection, with a broadening, widening grin so avid, so ardent, so keen to see the end results. Her heart beat with a jubilant note (at the sentiments of how many they’d be able to help when it was complete and full of precious, mending herbs) and her mind was filled with a radiant curiosity (the hows, mostly; what sort of magic reflected all these incandescent beams – was it given and granted from Gods, like her time wielding prowess, or something else altogether?). The distractions were immense and intense, amusing, diverting, whimsical, and delightful, and only at Imogen’s urging, a slight prod to the mind, a wrinkle of tails brushing against her legs, brought her back to the present, to words folding over, to directions and guidance needed.
Lena the Songbird i'm buried and covered peaceful under millions of stars |
@Glasgow