The Songbird avoided mulling over grief, over loss, over melancholy by throwing herself into a mixture of movement and arias – trying hard not to let laments slip from her lips – drowning out the sorrow by infusing it with motion and color. Her earthen, elemental grace wove a tender refinement through the valleys of melting snow and disappearing rime, gliding past argent sentries without tangible sight, past the terrain of awakening blossoms, past the chilling winds, past the grinding notion of nothingness, wrenching all of her despair into hope – into something serene, noteworthy, and necessary. Her limbs were poised and aloft, her dreams were rendered into more realistic things, and her body was attuned to the gradual release of winter, escaping into the spring air with a heart-felt warmth and an opulent glow (even if she didn’t feel it seeping into her skin, even if the sun didn’t kiss the fabric of her pelt, didn’t stroke the highlight of her scars). Lena knew what she was doing, was fully aware of thrusting herself back into old habits, where she tried to forget, tried to disappear, tried to picture anything but the thoughts that haunted, chased, and demanded every single snippet of the day. Perhaps there was another way to cope (to cry, to scream watery dirges back along the tomb, to weep until there was nothing left inside of her), but she’d been serenaded by these skills for far too long to back away into anything more simplistic or desirable. So while her herd waned, while it slowed to a screeching halt, while it yielded naught but an overwhelming sensation of demise, she wandered straight for the Threshold and its wide-open gates. At least it would be a useful distraction.
 
She wasn’t deterred the least by mysteries, by enigmas, by the sway of the unknown; she was tempted, enticed, and beguiled by the notion of new faces, new hopes, new dreams, foundlings coming from another land, another world, another empire, fervent, eager, and ready to become apart of something worthwhile. The diversion was worthwhile, an imminent tap into the dusk and void of other realms, because they needed to grow, they needed to overcome the heavy, looming weight pressing down over all of them, slipping over their necks, and tying along their throats – she refused to be knotted and gnarled, praying for salvation but proffering nothing in return. The Mender turned, glimpsed behind trees, followed over wayfaring scents, and paid little mind to the inner reeling of what truly consumed her. Imogen chirped along her forelegs, running beside her as they entered the grounds, shifting her foxy eyes over the fortifications, to chance the sighting of a stranger needing to be led further into Helovia. The kitsune gave one more spark through their connection when she heard something sigh from beyond – ears twitching, then following the movements and sounds. Lena drew behind, studying for forms beyond the trees and limbs, looking between petals and fir, needles and thorns, and only when she’d peered directly into shadow, did she realize, recognize, the sable stallion standing amidst the eaves and pine. “Hello!” She yielded, in a kind, considerate, compassionate voice, sprinkled with melody, forgoing any distinct sadness hastening to her brow. Her movements came a few yards before him, picking over fallen brush like she’d belonged within the narrowed lanes and pebbled roads instead of back towards the north, along the mountains and caverns.
 
A brush of examination came over her, swift and sure, molded by an amiable smile and a softening of her eyes, casting over his frame with subtle strokes and incandescent sentiments. He was scarred, like much of them, but the possibilities of how he obtained such markings were endless – from war, from feuds, from others who deigned him unfit, from the cruelties of the world. Her head tilted, mane tasseled, forelock long and extended between her honeyed gaze, and she offered the grandest of strains again. “I’m Lena. Welcome to Helovia.” Then she paused, looking over the depths of his eyes, the claw-marks sunken over one of the sockets, and showed curiosity instead of fear, compassion instead of immorality. Her words began a snippet later all over again, still radiant, still dipped in satin and silk. “Who are you?”

  The fey was content she’d chosen to wander into the Threshold’s mist and midst today; the locked pathways and yielding gates always had a sense of diversion, a hold of curiosity, a state of inquisition and diversion that led her away from all the strife of midday or the haunting hours of the evening. Before she even had an opportunity to delve further into correspondence with the stranger robed in black, a familiar figure approached (one she was forever indebted and grateful to for the simple act of returning an object close to her heart; serving as another reminder, another beacon, of things that were still beautiful in this world). The Songbird yielded a full, bright, brilliant smile in return, entangled in blossoms and radiance, in beneficence and grandeur, a sense of repose, tranquility, and serenity curled through her features. “Raeden, how wonderful to see you!” She meant it, from the bottom of her blessed heart, tilting her head to study the mare for a moment, perusing, not noticing if anything had been altered in their time spent away from one another. “We’re fine,” the femme mustered thereafter, half a lie bidden between her teeth, because she didn’t want to admit to the rest of the realms that their Lord had fallen, perished, died on the banks of the unfreezing lake, and they were all still, all silent, all vigilant and waiting for a noose to slink over their throats. “I trust you’re well?” She proffered one last inquiry for the dusty-rosed hued femme, all passion and posies, before returning her focus back upon the newcomer, who’d offered his name at her request.
 
Calyndar, he’d said through rubble and stone, and she watched him carefully through the honeysuckle depth of her eyes as he maneuvered in various directions, perhaps making up for the ivory, scarred orb. She wondered how she could aid him without giving herself away, and attempted to take up a stance where his unblemished beacon could view her, them, without complaint or issue – then she simply listened. It was a task she was fond and familiar with, ears attuned and pricked, mind whirling at the sensation of voice and sound, of the convictions laced between determination and hopelessness, at apologies for time taken. Here she shook her head, the grin never faltering, still steady, stalwart, and kind, a hint of valor rising through her chest and along her throat, like dulcet, sweetened dove-tails, airy and light, trying not to press where they weren’t wanted, but still encouraging, still unrelenting. Maybe that was the source of her power, of her potency (that pervading tenacity where others gave in, faltered and stumbled, where she rose from her trials and tribulations and banked purpose along her tongue). “No apologies necessary. We’re here to help.” She indulged Raeden with a wink, a smile, and slid her gaze back to the sable stag. “Where do you wish to wander? Do you long to be by yourself? Or amongst a herd?” Imogen waved her tails as she watched the beast – but Lena had just gotten started, parting her lips again and again to indulge him in the riches of their world. “I come from the Aurora Basin, towards the north,” and she nodded against the horizon, where the mountains lingered just out of reach, tall and strong despite all of their agonies. “There are three others, including the Dragon’s Throat, Hidden Falls, and the World’s Edge,” then she glanced at the other mare again, because she’d been able to grant details of some lands the Mender could not (except from other seasons, days she’d spent in war, in prison, or begging for the release of her comrades). Perhaps something would pique his interest, and they could provide the aid he required (or ignored – it was difficult to tell what he intended, other than disappearing into the void, not wishing to be of any trouble); the only worry in the back of her mind was the possibility that he would wander into hostility, into acrimony, into the abyss, and there’d be naught left of him thereafter.