Unbound, unfettered, unchained, they followed the same ritual – beating, fleeting, triumph at the sound of trills and laughter. They were a resounding crescendo of minstrel delight, flowing, gilded, dulcet threads one after the other, a reverberating highlight of stars and sunshine, of flickering pixie dust and trembling fairy wings. Sometimes it was a leisurely stroll, sailing over kingdoms and moonbeams, echoing a chord of merriment when the melody called for chirps and giggles; other moments it was a riotous blend of powerful minuets and movements, striking against the choral ring until they were floating, pervading masses, all sienna and ivory, blending into the backdrop. Their canvas was a part of the bliss, a part of the joy, a part of the Basin’s warm depths – like the hot springs, overflowing in tenderness and generosity, like the never-freezing lake, always temperate no matter the season. The Songbird would’ve given anything, her heart, her soul, her body, her essence, for the entire world to feel, to embrace, the jubilee, the exuberance, and the serenity she claimed now, dancing across a thousand dawns, waltzing along a thousand sunsets, drinking in the tranquility, the effervescence, the regal nature of just another day in Elysium –
 
An echo of a voice called to her, over the music, over the melodies, over the harmonies and hums hastened from her throat, and she ceased motions immediately, herbs in her mouth, Imogen at her feet, staring across the void upon a pale figure. It took a moment for her sentiments to no longer burst with song, but recognition, because while she didn’t know the other femme, her existence had been highlighted at the recent herd meeting; praise, consecration, and anointment given to her in the form of a title: Thief. Feeling utterly sheepish, she lowered the gathered plants poking from her maw to the ground, where Imogen sniffed and gathered them herself (running towards the greenhouse, intent on their pattern as Lena sorted out familiarities), extending her greetings and acknowledgements as another bridge of tunes and ditties. “Thank you. I’m sorry if it distracted you from your work.” Weren’t Thieves busy, consumed by information, by cloaks and daggers, by shadows and mercenary rites? Her thoughts flicked back to the crimson brigand she once knew, the one with blue eyes and a handsome veneer, smiling despite the quiver of pain snagging along her mind. “Aisling, wasn’t it?” The nymph tilted her head, curious and inquisitive, her sentiments clouding over with zealous questions and ardent discourse (You may join me, if you’d like or Do you sing too?), but another approached.
 
Unfortunately, no recognition was regarded in this instance; she would’ve remembered this face, for there was nothing equine about him. He was like the mystical elk of their desolate north, antlered and stoic, radiant and powerful; she’d always believed them to be the spirits of the forest, protective, guardians of the copses and woods, of the trees and all their restless entities, sometimes stolen by the wolf, but mighty enough to wage war within the pines and fir. However, those she’d always seen had been brown, painted to hide amidst their surroundings, to not become the hunted – and he was stark white, like the snow, like the ice, like he belonged in their mystical, mountain land. She’d just never expected one of them to stay, remain with their forms instead of basking in the rest of the wilderness. Nevertheless, she found she enjoyed his company; he was polite, courteous, charming and charismatic (being called a doe was something new – but it made sense in context, as a fellow beast tried to immerse himself within a species existing with horns and ribbons and lace intertwined along their crowns). “Thank you,” she uttered again, eyes wandering from Aisling to Leif, pondering if she’d been too much like a siren instead of a bird, heralding others from their duties – but from the sound of it, Leif had been searching for her anyway. “I am,” she proffered in slight surprise, in a swing of tunes and vocals, in an arch to her brow. “Do you sing?” She followed thereafter, to both of them, no longer an after-thought but an obligation, longing to hear the spread of sonnets and laurels throughout the opulent sky.