Lena
I'm buried and covered peaceful under millions of stars

The mare before her appeared nearly unchanged, an image of time ceased, intervals halted, concluded, finished, perfection attained in the last bits of their alterations, no others transcribed. Her gentle eyes studied the soldier, diligently prospered the unchanged beast; Korra still maintained the air, the dignity, the strength of a warrior, lines prompted by ritual training, stalwart hearts, valorous crusades and perilous onslaughts. Her warm fixation melted and molded into more queries, more quandaries prompted and perplexed, but never voiced for fear of audacity, boldness and impudence. If she seemed so enduring, so abiding, so indestructible, why had she left them? Had they erred somehow? Had the Basin not provided enough for her? Was it the ice, the rime, the glacial intrigues that forced her elsewhere, displeased, peeved, nettled and needled by its transgressions, its secrets, its cold, silent gaze? And if that were the case, would she be willing to return to its Siberian grasp, held aloft in the chilling bravado of its dangers, its iniquities, its beauty and allure? What could they do differently that would keep Korra at their sides, no longer drifting, no longer wandering, wavering, over vast open plains until she wasn’t any in their sights? Despite these misgivings laced amongst her mind, the nymph maintained her smooth, dulcet features, the infinite grin shrouding the dark clouds brimming along her thoughts and sentiments. She disguised her weary, confused slate with the natural fondness for the mercenary, brewing, brimming and spilling in a serene, silken glow, resplendent and bright, ebullient and light. The other femme’s smile mixed with her own, put her at some ease, allowing her heart to gather the pinnacles of excitement again.

When Korra addressed the kitsune at her side, the honeyed gaze floated to her ivory companion, wonderful Imogen, chirping and trilling, bouncing amongst the corridors of snow, rarely impacted by the idleness surrounding her. A blessing encompassed by a wily, cunning fox, ensuring the sylph that she’d never be lonely again, never be strayed and torn from others, never left to the dimmest hollows, forever bound. Her croon passed over wind and air, warming the raw, bitter tones with cordial, amiable song. “Imogen.” She said nothing more, perhaps because her love, her compassion, for the beast, for the world, for the companions brought back to her was enough to convey the utmost benevolence nestled in her chest, beating, fluttering, wild and untamed, ferocity kindled by kindness. There was a brief pause, where her regal head swiveled and shifted back to the beloved, antlered pariah, and she simply beamed, a restless nymph full of questions and hardly any answers. So she merely asked the most important. “Do you wish to return home?”