Memories, like embodied portraits of the soul, wandered in the silken threads of picturesque canvases. A spark of interest poignant upon a centerpiece of birth, or renewal, demise or rejuvenation; dotted and stippled with haunting lullabies or sublime candor. A laureate’s masterpiece sonnet, written in iambic lyrics, quoted by sinuous mouths, delightful hymns, solid, statuesque barbarians or the kindred spirit of a bewitching, beguiling creature, nestled in the chest, in the heart, in the mind. The burden of a thousand suns layered and lacquered across a heathen’s brow, a stalwart determination kindled and incensed by the timeless pursuit of that one victory. The delight, the cherished chords, of a radiant day, blessed and bestowed by the convictions of smiles, combined hopes and dreams, the luminescent bliss swallowed by a molten, infernal eave. The hallowed and hollowed wounds of treachery, of deceit, of shadowy dawns and inky filaments, of veils and secrets, duplicities scattered by vital trysts and scandalous murmurs, twisted and burned in midnight gallows. The aching rhythm of a besotted day, ruptured and run over, allured to the incarnation of a spirit never to be held, never to be owned, possessing naught, having nothing. They are the pathways to a distinction, the heralding of entities, driven by their primrose paths, alighted, guided, by the sanctities of these well-wishes, of these fantasies, of these dreams left to rot, wither and decay, or the conquest, the triumph, of an ambition found, discovered. A scent buried itself upon the horizon, sifting through the breeze, wafting and woebegone, tattered and torn by the rubble of weeks and seasons, loosened by the patchwork of others, but it coiled, cherished and blessed, in the corners of her mind. It’s a restless quandary, nestled and buried into the passing hours the nymph had discarded, searching for the enigmatic, rustling in the course of elegant, finery and finesse, finding dreams and carrying them across her shoulders until their wings dried, set free into the sun. It drifted into her mind and pricked, plucked, meandered the insistent, prideful trace and trance of its masculine bravado, and all at once she remembered, thought to laugh when she hadn’t instantly recalled it.

The beast it belonged to had fostered, demanded, a change in her soul, had bolstered and maintained a presence in her regal cranium because he’d altered and segmented a purpose in her floating livelihood. He’d set her on a course of cordial affairs, where lullabies, songs and lyrics soothed, assuaged and healed rather than merely proclaiming the arch of her art. He’d given her a moment, a change, a segment of blessings and divinations, charms and incantations brimming across her lips, and even if he didn’t realize the notion, she was forever thankful for him. Déodat, a creature who tied himself to adversity, spitting cauldrons of violence that didn’t quite reach his eyes, had given the nymph, the fey, the fairy, the warbling, crooning bird, her first song. Then, like many before him on the cold winds, he’d disappeared, into mist, midst and labyrinths, perhaps forging more battles, harboring more scars, throwing the remnants of his warrior ambience into the thickened fields of war, incensed, kindled, forever aligned to the outcrops of blood, vehemence and rubble. Had he returned, restored to the chilling arms of the Basin and her Aurora, to the healing whims of the hot springs and the raw escapades of its patriots, or was she being teased, taunted by the reminiscence of his presence? She hesitated amongst the long, wavering grasses, hung silently by the lake, contemplating the outreach of her kindness again. If she were to follow the heavy musk of his deliverance, would she find him, or just shards of his intensity, once vibrant, once glowing, the warrior entanglement of dueling hues meant to play his part?

Spurned by curiosity, by intrigue, by finding someone she would herald a friend, and lord, she’d lost so many in the ventures of time and space, mystery and ruin, her hooves danced their whimsical crescendo. A fanciful step, a soft, dulcet motion, a swirling, twirling parade of beats and movements, a cadence, a flow, of earthly pursuits gathered in sienna grace and elegance, brilliant, charming, and unwinding in the nipping chords of Orangemoon. Imogen, inquisitive to where her companion flew, chased after the onyx tassels of Lena’s tail, until they became dark and light strands of glowing, radiant souls, waves of sanguine, benevolent creation, washed away from the treachery, the dangers, of sin and iniquity. Her eyes searched the horizon, fell over forest, glade, beams of sunlight and ambient boughs, twisted towards streams, glided along caverns, until all at once, they sought what she’d hoped to discover. Like he’d never been marked by the passing, idle moments outside their icy walls, he stood amongst the ground, gruff, harsh, an unrelenting, unmistakable warrior. Had anything changed him? Had he added more scars to his pelt? Did he bleed again, and did she have to give him another aria to make him whole once more? She glided now, hooves barely marking the hardening soil, Imogen trailing closely behind, until she seemingly burst with the luminescence of her grin, of her smile, of her opulent, rapturous laugh. “Déodat!” The word rushed through the air before she could meet his stance, arriving moments after another crossed into the path, and she gestured wildly to both, full of merriment, full of joviality, full of bliss, glee and exuberance for the return of one she’d thought lost, for memories forged and inspired again. “Are you well?” Her words crossed in swift, embarking tones, features tossed into ambience of color, light, divinity, before she could study the other mare, ivory and antlered (was she a relative of Aurelius, that gentle, branched creature), softening her attentions to a subtle sentiment of well-wishing and fanciful fey meandering. “I’m Lena. Who are you?” Imogen, crafty and cunning in her youth, chose to sidle closer to the unknown femme, wary of the seemingly brash stag, stopping short of her hooves, sniffing at them and chirping lightly.

She’d sing sonnets, she’d brandish laurels, and she’d chant carols until she was hoarse, until she was mute, for her friends and companions. They were the reason she lived, breathed and warbled, blessing the convictions, the promises, the benedictions she so carefully cherished, she so delicately offered in each bestowal of her precious existence. They were the reason she traversed across the earth with whimsical smiles and fanciful grins, with an enlightened brow and a regal heart. They were the reason she spoke with a mellifluous air, trilled melodies by starlight and hummed refrains by the sun’s luminescence. They were the reason she strove to become stronger, sturdier, valiant and courageous, why she stoked the fires of damnation, reaching in, grasping, and pulling away the raw embers clinging to their skin. To have one of them returned to her, the creature that had once tugged a melody from her throat, that had her gift granted by the Sun God, was a magnificent gesture, a heart-rendering escapade, that, even when his low grumble reached her ears, sounded awe-inspiring. The nymph missed the sway of her brethren, the gentle, kindred spirit of Aurelius, the capable, determined Larkspur, the soft rain of Huyana, and the countless other whispers of comrades lost to the will of the earth – but at least they’d been given the return of Deodat. Despite his gruff exterior, his penetrating silence, she admired the tenacity, the grit, the pernicious sweep of his powerful presence, promised to protect it when it became seared, scorched and scarred from the ailing tides of turbulence, animosity and vehemence. His entity, alive and well in the halls of their chilling enigmas, in the majesty, the mystery, of their hallowed chambers and corridors, would set her at ease, wouldn’t compel her to apprehension or concern. Though she was certain he would find enough danger or peril in the midst of their calculating runes, she was glad to see that he wouldn’t be out alone, adrift in the forlorn, bleak desolation of impairment and suffering. Even still, the sylph lowered her cranium, tilting her head along each side of his body, a teasing inspection, to ensure there weren’t any long, hopeless scars, blemishes opened and festering, lacerations needing the careful assuaging of her voice, her poems, her lyrics. Her vocals became a mocking decibel of light, airy laughter, and even in the mist of its exuberance, she knew he would hear her unease over his frame. “No wounds that need mending?” Her smile blossomed ever further as she paused, honeyed stare an immaculate gleam of prosperity, tones curling into arias, into ditties and birdsong, a glimpse of her fortune. “I’m glad to see you’ve returned.”

As Lena tended to the stag, Imogen paid close attention to Arah, drifting nearer to her long, wispy strands of mane, gliding tendrils that danced in the wind, fluttered across the ground. She batted at them for a moment, confused and perplexed by their wondrous movement, excited for the chance to waltz along with such a formidable foe. Only when the other mare asked for her calling did the fox chirp and trill again, aligning her gaze to the stare of the femme and swaying back to Lena’s side. The fairy grinned, turned her sugared gaze towards the Impersonator again, posturing, pouring, the warm, dulcet tones of her clear, harmonious chords once more. “A pleasure to meet you, Arah. This is Imogen.” She ceased for a few moments, lifting the box of her curiosities open with a simple, cordial pry. “What do you do for the Basin?” They all had their purpose, their stature, their calling, Deodat with his soldier prowess, Lena with her nursing, soothing tendencies, but curiosity remained unbound and tossed into the atmosphere: what did Arah commit to the Basin? She was sleek, slender, lithe and limber, like a frond, a willow, a fern dancing in the dusk, perhaps gentle, and in other instances tough, forceful, persevering, insistent.

But then she laughed, insisted that she’d interrupted their reunion, seemingly floated away from them, straying, digressing, traversing into the wind to find another avenue, another world to pursue. Lena immediately regretted the atmosphere, felt somehow she’d been responsible for lavishing too much attention on one individual more than the other, wanted more companions to treasure and prize, and stepped away from Deodat. Like a hand reaching out for another’s, salvation and liberation strummed along the strings of harps, her words extended into the sky, full of hope, full of compassion, full of tender understanding. “Oh, please stay. Reunions should involve many, not few.”

The sylph fluttered and flickered like a bright fey and fairy, mixed and contained in the harmonious plunge of comrades, the mellifluous grace of friends. Her exuberance and enlightenment made gold, radiant, resplendent, glowing, luminous things shared by and for brethren, wild, untouched glory murmured by besotted hallelujahs. If she could paint a picture of hope, of contentment and satisfaction, the tapestry would be stroked by Déodat’s hues, mahogany, ivory and ebony, the enriched ruby cauldrons of his sword, and Arah’s woven fibers of silvern snow, long threads of satin tassels. It was repose, it was peace, it was serenity, safety and sanctuary, a world encompassed and held in the fine elegance, to holy grace, of homecomings, resurgencies and revivals, the sanguine touch her beating heart had missed in the intrepid days of scattered runes and enigmatic puzzles. Black clouds misaligned and drawn away from the corridors of her mind, hope christened and anointed by the majesty, the magnificence of this grandeur, this splendor, this rapture she refused to have torn away from her. Her smile became wider, incandescent, illuminated by the fixtures of her benedictions, by the soft, light sigh of relaxation, realization, the gruff warrior welcomed back into open arms, no longer plagued or ailed by injuries. Rendered upon him, the grin was cheeky, delighted and cordial, ramparts of euphoria and jubilation long-since missed, and her tender stare matched his gaze for gaze, euphonic, amicable, amiable, the tender twist of a satisfied nymph. And though she longed to query, question and inquire over his whereabouts, the worlds he’d drifted through, the shifts and changes he’d made to heart, mind, body and soul, she still refused to pry, locking her curiosities into capricious, whimsical things, tossing them aside for being in the mere presence of her stalwart, valorous brethren. So she uttered nothing, nodded her acquiescence, and struggled not to gleam anything from the vivid, piercing, puncturing gaze he sent towards hers; an iron gaze melting, or another calculating stance from a soldier, from a mercenary, longing to see the icy world they’d left?

She was stolen from his stare by Arah’s response, and sent an alluring, affectionate, half-grin towards his essence before becoming enraptured by the other femme again, the clarity of blooming, blossoming generosity kindling her inquisitive nature once more. Imogen, however, drove her attentions to the stallion, poking her tiny claws at his front feet, growing braver as the moments passed. Lena invited the convictions of the fellow fae, reached and pleaded for another of kindness, of benevolence, where cretins stepped and mysteries became tangled knots never to be cut, slashed or unwound. She listened, genial and regal, an ear twisting to gleam the replies and answers she’d sparked. Arah, the Impersonator. The rank spoke of secrets, of enigmas, of bewitching kingdoms and wily, cunning monarchs, sovereigns that yielded nothing, tongues that revealed naught, encased sanctities of furtive splendor. Lena would probably never have touched upon such a herald, for while she had once dallied in politics, diplomacy and emissary proclaim, she wouldn’t wish to become consumed with the network of shadows, the long hallways, the rash corridors of sly conspiracies. The mention of Faelene, however, still rendered the same vibrant, strong smile. “You have a wonderful guide. Faelene will teach you well.” The seraphic creature was rendered attentive again when Arah tossed her own inquiry, and Lena glanced towards the brute again, offering the warble, the trill, of a giggle to melodically trace her throat. He knew her profession, occupation, better than anyone, had granted her the gift, altered the scheme of her purposes, her motivations, her dreams and sentiments. Her eyes reached again for the ivory femme, varnished in the glow of her stature, her finesse, her divinity. “I’m a Nurse.” She brought herself closer to the mare, pretending to usher a conspiring whisper, murmuring a crooning a bird hymn, toying and playing with the earth’s fancies and delights, a soft, dulcet hastening of arias. “I heal by song.”