Pleasantries warmed the cooler air, caused them to sing, to hum, to bolster the spirits as they scrambled, rampant, down the course of dished cheeks and wholesome hearts. The coldness, the stark, desolate chill, was another sanctuary, a reminder of home, of weeks and months spent amongst brethren, warding off the sting of defeat, brandishing smiles when they were given a segment, a piece, of forgiveness in the windswept arms of the Aurora and her Basin. Newcomers are not given the story of their sacrifice, of their demise, of remnants of pride scattered to destroyed eaves, of their torrents and tumults, of their victories and subsequent ruins. Instead, they were treated to the clamor of the veiled air, sweet and nurturing, nipping and biting, embraced by the mountainside, the valleys, the lakes and frozen fixtures of opulence, of grandeur. Lena didn’t spill any of the tale from her lips, did not pour the rancor, the bitterness, of the legend into the parade, and merely settled into the rapture of the cordial, amicable day, how lucky she, and everyone else, were to be residing in a world they could cherish, restore, and revitalize once more. Home, a wonderful chord of jubilation, glee and hope, fostered into silken threads of phoenix ashes, rising, reborn, persevering, strong, mighty and glorious. Perhaps Tiamat, daughter of rain and clouds, would find the mystery, the ambience, the enigmatic swing of each lyrical hum to be a wholesome push into divinity and the sublime, to encompass and cherish the dominion of their newfound distinction, bolster the prestige, heighten the resplendence and majesty of the kingdom they all shared. Gentled, mellifluous and intrigued, the nymph, sylph, fey and fairy, cast her eyes upon her elemental counterpart and smiled again, the steady, everlasting grin. If Tiamat was the ocean, could she be the song of the sky? If Tiamat was a mermaid, could she be a bird? Could they hum together in the beat, in the twist, of coming days? A hymn bubbled in her throat, a murmuring, divine note that enlightened the horizon, blanketing the soothing sounds of wind and day. “You’re welcome.” She drank in an interlude, watched the world of rime, ice and caverns, of mysteries never to be found, of secrets never to be heard, offered her vocals again in a serenade of well-wishes, enthusiasm and intrigue. “Would you like a tour?”

Another is fetched from the reign of the Orangemoon, a familiar individual, who, despite the imminent distinction of his presaged essence, she still kindled a smile for. She lowered her head in a regal gesture to the Time Mender, one whose horn was made of glass but not his body, not his heart, not his soul, bending it gracefully towards her chest, then regaining her former posture thereafter. She studied him kindly, a graceful nuance fluttering in the background, like sentiments of an old friend lost to the entities of space and time. He’d been a foundation of the Edge, and now only cemented the notion further along the Basin, winding his magic and poison into the air, the fabric, the tapestries and shadows. He was precious to them, a trusted ally, a formidable Doctor, encased in livelihood, in legend, and in price. She’d been one of the few to fetch him from the depths of sand and soot after his abduction, when their world had already been crushed and snatched. Perhaps this was why he bestowed her an uncommon grin, and she took it as a token of kinship, allowed hers to grow wider. Her voice ignited again, waltzing, lilting, a soothing aria that whispered over the ages of a kingdom lost to them. “D’Artagnan.” The songbird became silent then, allowed the queries to be answered to whom they were directed upon, and instead watched tiny Imogen crouch and float amongst the other companion. The kitsune, attempting to be crafty, lowered her frame amongst the reverie of long grasses, but forgot the twitching ivory tails, bending and swaying in amusing mimicry.

They were at peace with the listless, languid tranquility, ethereal repose and calm sanctuary, tender solitude from the roughened edges and sharpened barbs drifting at their doors. Warmth to repel the chill, cordiality to avert cretins, benevolence and amiability to quell the animosity, the acrimony, a billowing courtship of allayed, assuaged strength. With the wilderness pulsing in their midst, with the bravado, the touch, the mysticism of the Basin laced and woven beneath their feet, they were augured prowess, heralded enigmas, scorched and marred by filaments of yesterday, grasping their renewed valor for tomorrow. Lena enjoyed setting her sights upon the Siberian horizon, then back upon her companions, witnessing as they molded into the backdrop of persistence, perseverance and tenacity, fine strings of unbroken hymns, chants and songs. She wouldn’t want to be anywhere else but in the presence of comrades, their backs to the wind, their noble heads craning to the eaves, to the skies, christened, graced, portended for some lofty goal upon their icy mantle. She had no doubt one day they would rise to the shining pinnacle, for whatever they wished, for whatever they yearned for, for whatever they desired, designed and sculpted in the fabric of their minds. Tiamat, with her elegant, sweeping hands of rain and dew, touching the world with her watery trance, her willowy intelligence, her youthful gaze, the Doctor, with his medicines and incantations, prescribing, nurturing, healing, tending and mending to the broken, the scarred, the injured. For herself, she remained unsure – she could sing, she could dance, she could strum the sinuous chords of a harp, a flute, a bird, lead them into serenity, kindle the stubborn traits of a bold heroine, but in contentment, she offered and bestowed the primordial sentiments of her charms and whimsical follies.

The Time Mender seemed uncomfortable, an awkward stance, features pulled into avenues of escape, but he still returned her smile, so her fostered grin became even more embellished, wild, fey, the essence of another otherworldly beast meant for dreams, meant for frolics, meant for untamed magnetism and allure. Her voice brimmed in a bright, gleaming tone, friendly and affable, the token affection of someone she’d consider a friend. “Yes. And yourself?” For she was well, no longer breaking off into segments of decay, no longer withering, no longer wailing to the silent requiems of her lamentable anguish. She had nothing to complain about, she had naught to dissuade her from the life she forged, carved and composed. Her happiness billowed and puffed around her in tangible waves, in the ebullient course of her frame, in the pride she claimed when she brought another creature to their valley. Her attention was drawn back to the aforementioned, the daughter of earth and sky, and the nymph watched as Tiamat’s eyes were caught and ensnared in delight, then to the shores of the reservoir, where the water glistened, where the rolling current seemed to call her home, onward and upward. A warble echoed from her smooth vocals, a tease tangled in the midst of newfound patriots. “Perhaps the lake first?”

Motions ensued, a dance, a whirl of movement, finery tipping into the wind, gathered in an exotic flourish of rapid finesse and poise towards the siren banks. Back into their elements, she modeled, shaped, cast the filaments of her careful, methodical reverie; the rapture of bliss that beckoned, invited, pursued her friends. She would paint the Basin as she envisioned it, regal, arcane, secretive, untamable and beautiful, showing them the heralded courtyards of mysteries and opulence, of splendor, of wonder, of vast, wide-open resplendence. Imogen followed, swirled and turned, a stream of ivory and blue, tails chasing after blades of grass – then the young Hellhound. She swayed into the tendrils of flora and back out again, batting back at his ears, chirping and warbling her own playful sensibilities.

The nymph peered into the depths of the lake, admired its brilliance, its steadfast valor in the arts and covenants of darkness, relished its beauty, and revered its staunch, stalwart bravado in the face of frozen peaks and valleys. To share shelter amongst its sanctuary was another blessing she’d yet to become thankful for, and so accomplished this in silent rapture, closing her eyes amongst the webbing, the tangle, of its rippling rivulets and currents. The arctic wind ruffled her tresses, combed through her mane, tangling it into the enigmatic twists and turns of the Basin, plaiting the roughened barbs and thorns into further wonder, further intrigue, further mystique. A content sigh passed through her lungs and hung in a tender vapor amongst the chilling air, because this was peace, this was tranquility, this was serenity, companions, new and old, joined and endeavored towards the warmth, the solidarity, of their kingdom. The ivory kitsune batted at the water, foolish and carefree, adrift too in the majesty, the splendor, the resplendence of reticent, intrepid, undaunted sovereignty. Lena opened her cordial, honeyed gaze to cheerfully glance at the youthful Tiamat, whispering her secrets and furtive, sweet nothings to the breeze, to the shoal, to the reservoir bound in her heart. She refused to listen to the muttered words, allowed the girl to encase those newfound promises into the kingdom without the notion of prying, of eavesdropping, of scattering ancient runes to discovery and exploration. Only when addressed did she utter phrases and sonnets, curling the repose into song and spirit, languishing the earth with its perilous elegance, its luminous power. “Yes, it is.”

She listened to their brief conversation, however, when it changed to interests and studies. Lena had found hers in swift, quick alterations, had fathomed and recognized her calling from Emissary, and when diplomacy faded from their pursuits, to mending. Only when pushed, only when bound, only when shoved into battle could she become a warrior, and she lacked the ambitious qualms, the satisfactory mind to enact weaving tendencies. There was only assuaging, only healing, only soothing armaments for her now, carried by waves of song, satin and lyrics, stanzas carefully woven through hums, warbles, trills and ditties, concocted to an aria that lavished the grandeur of her aspirations, goals and dreams. The child wanted this too – the ability to help others, to cure, to repair and restore, stitch and patch until renewal was glorified, breathless and forgotten, donned and dawned for a new day, a new venture. The sylph smiled again at the cerulean youngster, played the harmonious harpsichord fastened to her vocals. “You may always seek us for guidance.” And when the Time Doctor hastened a sturdy retreat, she almost thought to laugh, truthfully, he had stayed a great while in their company, had been inviting, welcoming, and every bit as genial, obliging, and gracious. Perhaps they’d conjured and held too much of his passing hours, and likely he had more pressing things to conquer and consume. The sienna Nurse offered him a friendly bow, and Imogen chirped in turn to the Hellhound, a fond farewell in the midst of comrades. “If you must go, we won’t keep you. Thank you for accompanying us.”