Lena used these moments of ease and equanimity for the art of discovery, to delve into oeuvres of inquiry, mystery, curiosity, a finely painted canvas of revelations. Brushstrokes of ardor, interest, fascination, piqued across her mind, and she dabbled in the array of colors, immersed herself within the clarity, the serenity, of a chamber encased in secrets. Like a lost soul, the meadow held its clandestine, covert boughs well, caressing grace and pressing finery into sinew of ages and snippets of war drums. Close, nestled in its heart, in its regalia, were untouched nuances of idle crimes and beseeched stories, stolen tomes and rotted tombs, and she wanted to touch every inch of its specious regard, soak into the reign of its ardor, because she was reminded so idlely of herself, caressed by flowers, blessed by morality, yet, beneath the honey and ambrosia was the enamel of savage fortitude. Her eyes dove into the meticulous display, the fine sculptures, the layered, lacquered wood christening a field of lavender hues, the bands of soil that covered and buried etchings of time. What thread to unravel, what muse to convey, what souls to find amongst the ensconsed beauty, the softened grandeur, the beguiling haze of enigmas and quandaries? Had it once fallen from grace, measured by the weight of its might, of its brawn, and the unraveling dissonance of its hands, the clamor of its sins? How had it escaped to embrace the earth again, to pervade the world in its grace, delicacy, and noble regard? Was it constructed from shambles, from shards, from fragments until at last, there was naught but the tender construction of heartbeats, fluttering, fleeting moments extended to days; survival on the floor of iniquity? Sweet, withering entities blessed, corroded, disregarded, only to grow, sprout from the blooming florets of calculated durations? At this, she smiled again, turned from the fray of waving plants, leaving them to their sub rosa, eaves of evenings under roses and thistles. Prying no longer, her lashes closed over sienna eyes, tucked along her cheeks, washed, kissed, in the glow of sun and sky, when the chirp of Imogen interrupted her repose.

The compassionate conviction of her gaze swiftly touched upon her companion, offering her grin in response, when she noted the cunning hint of the kitsune’s stare, brandished beyond the grass, fixated on another individual amongst the valley. Following Imogen’s line of sight, the nymph stared upon the other femme, immediately reminded of deer, swift, cautious, attentive and alert, eager to leap in bounds, away from peril, away from treachery; songs she couldn’t blend in her throat for fear she would not be worthy of their creation. Was she made of wind and air, this one of umber, fawn and mahogany, like the leaping, cordial entities of stags and does, graceful essences of forests, of fields, of plains that held their fascination and compulsions? Did she chase the foggy dawn, the transient mist, move in the rush of silence, twirl in the brilliance of blended earth? Had she altered her bravery, swindled it into position, for this christened day? At such a thought, Lena’s smile grew, basking the serenity of her tranquility, composure, allurement of the region, the world, the kingdom binding them all together, brethren of the heath. She could never deny a fellow creature of might, tenacity and determination. Vocals sprinkled a mellifluous chord over the flowers, curled nuances of well wishes, kindness, endurance and mettle to surround the quaking, quivering femme locked in enticement and exploration. “Not at all. It’s a pleasant day to be among newfound friends.” The sylph offered a brief dip of her regal head, winked when she returned to her prior position. “I’m Lena, and this is Imogen.” She gestured to the ivory bundle slinking amongst the grass, tails swinging wildly above blades of greenery. “Who are you?”

Yet, there is another amongst the quiet, hushed gathering – not to be ignored, not to be outdone in the haze of lingering compulsions and intrigues. Imogen, ever alert, ever vigilant, sprung her blue eyes to the sky, a witness to a bird hunting its prey. A lurking, haunting silence hung between its wings, along its elegant motions, undulating breaths of predatory, mercenary delight, diving and plucking its meal from the arms of once sheltering grass. Sanctuary rendered useless, decayed and worthless, the animal is sacrificed, torn into armaments of necessity – and the kit, captivated, engrossed, imitated shades of the raptor’s swift, streamlined movements. Launching from the ground to another aspect of earth, it pounced upon pebble and stem, stalk and leaf, emulating quick, rapid movements, but not stealth. Catching Lena’s attention away from the gentle equine, the sylph eyed her fox’s motions, almost thought to giggle, when her sharp gaze pricked against the shadows of a nearby tree; beneath the tower was another. There was no recognition in her pose or poise, no hint of having met the wandering Pegasus, but with the confines of sable shade ghosting, trickling, writhing, over her form, the songbird couldn’t make out any distinguishing features to gain anything worthy of note. Instead of leaving her to be ignored by the traces of the earth, by the dusky hollows of day, she gestured towards the individual, conjured another warble along the streamlined course of smooth benedictions and strong hearts. “Hello! You may join us, if you’d like.” Why did she cling to the armaments of Stygian hues and solace? Why did she drift amongst the glade, stolen by darkness and gloom? What lay trapped there, in the shell of protective boughs?

Perhaps Lena would uncover secrets here, in the midst of wood and fen.