Lena spent many hours within the first vestiges of Birdsong diligent and dedicated, funneling through tasks left behind at the lure of winter, determined not to mull over the somber state flickering through the mountainsides. She dashed through the greenhouse as a fairy, sweeping away cobwebs, broken, withered leaves occupying the floor, and perusing through herbs dried out over the Frostfall, making mental notes of which plants needed to be replenished, which hadn’t been used at all, and if there were any new ones she’d like to obtain – ignoring the painful lull flickering over her sentiments when her mind wasn’t fully occupied. When her eyes became crossed, swimming along the sights of so many different blades, she and Imogen altered their course, opting to duck beneath the aperture of the glass building (brushing off a few lingering patches of snow as she passed), and wander through the vast grounds of the Basin.
 
The Mender focused her senses on the sounds of spring, a beautiful, transient fixture of blossoms and warm wind, of birds trilling, of serenity and repose even in the monumental loss of the Reaper – how time and the seasons managed to move on, despite even the dimmest and darkest of days. She even thought to bask in the glow of it, in the sun blessing grounds and melting rime, but it didn’t seem right to dance in the beacon of light and auroras, when their thrones had toppled and pillars had been crushed into dust.
 
So they wound their way around the borders, mere beings poised in the aftermath of diligence and poise, strength and power, some of the last, fleeting remnants of another time, another place, another empire fallen and reborn. She hadn’t meant to wind up across from the rusted, metallic sentinels with their eerie, unseeing eyes, close to the grind of stone and the whisper of destruction, but her gaze still locked onto them, wondering, pondering, why everything could not remain the same, when another figure presided close by. Imogen and her ceased their wayward movement, the kitsune’s ears pricked, gaze sliding to the lingering wolf, while Lena’s stare strayed immediately to the sable form against the final, clinging remains of snow, winged (feathers dyed in crimson, in ivory, in Stygian tufts). “Greetings,” the femme cast towards the stranger (and how odd, because she seemed eerily familiar too – like she’d seen her before, come across her form in so many other intermingling facets, as if they’d been passing spirits, both on their own missions, crossing at different intervals). “I’m Lena,” she proffered, granting a piece of song, giving the smallest of smiles, uncertain, unsure, of what had brought the newcomer here – if she was a threat, or if she meant to be a part of the walls, the summits, the peaks and valleys. But she wouldn’t break or alter her repose, humming with kindness, with diligence, despite all the hardships worn upon her hide, curled and coiled within her frame. Her melodic voice strung together again, amiable and considerate, thoughts poised, ready, fervent for something, anything. “How may I help you?”

[Imi <3]

  The Valkyrie sprung from beyond the mountain pass, and the idle bewitchings of danger, of treachery, of having to guard the outpost from too many strangers fell away – the ambience and composure remained, knotted along her graceful form as if kindled and incensed from birth. Her smile was a luminous, beautiful creation, blooming in curls of blossoms and petals, spring-like in its warmth and tenderness, in its affection and grandeur, while her head bowed towards the Queen, rose again to honor her in words and presence. “I trust you’re well, Hotaru?” Thereafter, her gaze swung back to the newcomer, Ghost, and she wondered how she’d come to possess such a name – by the follies of intangible things, or did she linger as a wraith, a cool, shrouded phantom, loitering listlessly around halls, parlors, and avenues, sweeping over dungeons, collecting fragments of secrets? Was she serene, a spirit dwelling on the earthly plain, rendered complete by the title of otherworldly expressions? Lena wanted to ask on the acquiring; it nearly jumped from her tongue, but she held it back, grinning again instead, welcoming another branch of smoking cloaks and daggers, of sleuths clawing and clattering for information on the truths, on the lies, on the serpentine edges of their realm. “A pleasure, Ghost.” Then her head tilted, curious still, trying to dwell along safe harbors, where furtive arms and munitions weren’t suddenly seized, where rights and inquiries were liberations and deliverances. “Where did you come from?”
 
But Ghost posed her own question too, and the Songbird watched a set of keys dropped to the ground; her memory sketched its way through nooks and crannies, through experiences and upheavals, attempting to search and pore over why they seemed familiar – something about the desert, about Sikeax, about days cavorting along the sand and flying over a bridge - enchanted, distorted, a means of a way in and a way out. Maybe her query had already been answered, because those artifacts seemed like pieces of the Dragon’s Throat. Her brow arched, but she had no response to give, glancing ultimately to Hotaru, who would hold a decision on the matter.