L E N A

Prosperity shattered, tossed, thrown against the rocky cliffs of their former home, and like the rough sea below, it tore apart the fragmented remnants of another time, another place. Before, she would have been able to offer shelter and sanctuary to wayfaring, wandering souls, and now, as she made her way towards the Threshold, there was no roof to protect and secure, no food to engulf and devour, no water to lap and quench. All she could extend were the nuances of the flat, wind-blown Steppe, frosted and chilled, glacial and intrepid. The shambled sentiments themselves were a grave mixture of deceit and rancor, a bitter, cold shell that offered little promise but the sanctity of company, a vengeful group of horned kin that yearned, desired, and thirsted for the sanguine burst of guidance, divinity and affluence again. Would someone hasten to such a decree? Would someone allow their minds to become fused, knotted, and entangled with a splintered tribe?

Yet, still, Lena traversed the nomadic world, a gypsy once more, determined and stalwart, resolute and unwavering, crossing over realms of ice and snow to beckon some solitary creature to unite with wounded, hungry beasts. Where sorrow threatened to consume her moral flesh, she found the power of tenacious commitment, pulling against her bones and blood, tearing away the broken enamel of misery, continuing onward, in search for fresh creatures, ones that could help mend the porcelain shards driven into their vindictive hearts. Elegance mustered and mastered along her limbs, sienna body turned to gold in the precious sunlight of a winter’s day, essence of ethereal entity not yet lost in the Siberian interludes. She raised her head to the skies and drank the cool portals of loss and light, the serenade of regrowth and renewal buried under the weight of solidified crystals. When a new scent captured her nares, drove them towards an unfamiliar being, her steps grew lighter, airy, forgetting the bruising ailments that had once afflicted them. She followed, tracing the pattern of hoofmarks lodged within the snow, a pathway of distinction, until she finally reached the newcomer, not one, but two. They blended into the world of ice, glacial, serene, impassive in the slate of winter's calm ire. Could they be one of these willing beasts, thrust into an unfamiliar world, eager for the adventure that awaited them? Would they be one of the amenable, ready to help them restore, rebuild in the shades of retribution and reprisal? Lena allowed herself a soft smile as she drew to a halt a few yards away from the fae and stag's presence, ducking her head cordially in a polite nod, before raising it to prior position, proud, benevolent, eyes opening to a candor she’d forgotten in the midst of battle. Even her vocals, unused recently in fear they’d erupt in a trembling sob, resonated with their old, mellifluous grace, incapable of forgetting their precious, rich clarity. "Welcome to Helovia. I am Lena." She almost broke then, pausing swiftly before she’d proclaimed “of the World’s Edge.” For she wasn’t now – only belonging to a shambled, distorted group of lost heathens and saints. "Who are you? What do you seek?"