The press of Tallsun was hardly noted; it touched over the chilling vapors of the Basin like a beatific cloud, allowing warmth but bowing to the indulgence of the mountains before becoming too overwhelming. It coiled against Lena’s ears and nourished her soul, kissed her figure with the invocations of the sun, and they danced beneath the legions of the heavens in soft, radiant arias, scouring the earth for herbs to fill the greenhouse and its glassy exterior, roaming the waves of greenery for a chance to explore, refining the art of their grace to forgo, to forget, the merciless divisions hovering beyond their boundaries. Kaos was outside for now, hovering in the Marsh, and not in here, where the summits beamed at the first crisp sign of summer, where the glimpses of the heavens touched over their entities, where the Reaper was nestled between his favored haunts; some portions of the world were still right, still real, still whole. Her eyes searched along the glorious halls and inner pathways, for ghosts, for thieves, for signs of something more reaching for them, Imogen chirped and the caverns echoed, but the silence thereafter wasn’t ominous, wasn’t pressing, and they glided away, down towards the sentinels.
 
Two figures were nestled and tucked beneath the shadow of the guardians, and for a moment, Lena recalled the days where the marks of the unknown would’ve been threatening and treacherous, demanding, cold, harsh, pockets of unrelenting forces seeking to destroy them from the inside out. Were those moments truly gone? Her heart didn’t pound the way it once did, chained and tethered to apprehension (and maybe it should’ve been, because she’d been snagged, caught, and tarnished in so many anarchies; but rose above them, broken but triumphant), and as her eyes searched over the forms, she found one distinct and familiar (the other a piece of the background; seen in meetings and gatherings, but foreign and unknown to her, a situation needing to be rectified). The scarred girl, their crafter of the greenhouse, held her foremost attention, however.
 
“Glasgow!” She shouted, distinct and sublime, portions and pieces of satin, of harmony, of serenity bestowed in noble regard, wandering closer and closer on light strides and potent airs. Her smile was intrepid and warm, tender, an embrace of fondness and tranquility for the Edge glazier, bobbing her head in delight when she finally reached their figures. “How are you? Have you come to tend to your greenhouse?” Here she smiled and laughed, winked, brandishing her clear amiability and cordiality, shifting slightly to address the argent stallion. “Hello! I’m Lena. I don’t believe I’ve had the chance to make your acquaintance.” Yes, she thought, kind and generous, some things were still whole.

 
She might’ve guessed more changes were in the air – should’ve sensed, should’ve known, but her head had been cluttered with the clouds, with the swirl of seasons, with death and rebirth. This one, however, is an embodiment of delight and merriment; a slight of hand that went with mercy and liberation, that went with kindness and amiability, not a wall closing but a door opening, and the Mender’s smile couldn’t have gotten any broader, wild and carefree and glorious to behold. “How wonderful!” It was wonderful, she wouldn’t have lied, not when her heart felt so light and incandescent, eager to allow another friend into the whirl of mists, caverns, and mountains. Imogen chirped too, once to Cassius, and another entirely materialized from Lena’s effective joy, bounding between Songbird and sonnets, and the nymph herself swung her features from one individual to the next, happy, harmonious, buoyant. “Thank you for bringing her here, Cassius,” winking, indulgent, maneuvering past all the boundaries of silence and stillness, a restless hymn tucked between her lips, extended through rhapsody, song, and arias. She even nodded towards the incoming Weaver, grin still poised, still elegant, still enduring despite being faced with the unknown, and then waltzing off to the side, as if extending her welcome into the wide-open meadows, into the earnest valleys, into the slide of ice, of snow, of summer evenings and dazzling hues.
 
She nearly asked her what prompted the occasion – because the Glazier had always been associated with the Edge and its fog, its mysteries, its enigmas, had come from its borders to create for them - and her curiosities were unsettled, building, brewing, colliding. But the fey didn’t chase them down, didn’t whittle, weave, or trace their outlines, allowing them to cool, to dissipate, as rapidly as the altering weather, forgoing intrigue for warmth and melody. “Of course!” The acceptance, the invitation, was hastened and brought forth without question; the other femme had already done so much for them, had already granted them their wishes, their laurels, their diamonds in the rough. She laughed again, content with Glasgow’s knowledge of crafting – after all, she’d constructed a greenhouse for them, and her talents were noteworthy, encased in shiny veneer, in amazing aplomb. “I’m sure our crafters would be happy to have you.”