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

Constant darkness reminded Lena of many things bending amongst the shadows, sorrow, misery, tribulations dragging across distorted, well-meaning schemes, where to pluck their beloved ones from harm, they had to enact their own, and even then, the clouds had scattered over their hearts. Failure was a poison flickering and lapping between ardent veins, venomous, grasping, toying, an altar to disaster, defeat and collapse. For one moment, a minute feeling of elation, pressing tenderly along an intertwining caress, the thought, the sensation, of triumph dancing, conquest blooming, only for seconds thereafter to consume, searing, simmering, smoldering, the gloom of pestilence. A sickening series of events, unwinding in their passionate displays, in their emboldened sketches, in their streamlined determination, united, collided, and fettered away to nothing. The songbird wondered if they were destined for the endless cycle of perseverance, persistence, and tenacity, only to falter, bend and break into the eternal debacle of ruin. A second somber scene, the first painted amongst a bramble of tundra and glaciers, and now the current tapestry and canvas followed, stripping the grandeur of their pursuits into an empty palm, bereft of companions once absconded. What of the children and their mother now, still locked, still chained, still guarded and secure along the intertwining edges of forest and mist? Were they to be the forsaken devils? Were they to be robbed of their innocence, their whims and fancies, forever encrusted in twilight oubliettes? The queries hovered in the nymph’s mind, a worthy distraction to the pricking, lacerating calculations still roaming over her membrane, rancorous, bitter, distracting. She struggled not to ruminate over the echoes of her own catastrophe, the tangled fortitudes and machinations unraveling beneath her precious, gentle exterior, tainted days crushing the careful, composed visage she’d cherished, absorbed, and displayed. These passing, idle, snippets of time would be diligently composed for assuaging, mitigating the harm exposed and covered over the hides of her gallant, brave, courageous brethren.

She ignored her own pain, the aches bursting against her muscles, concentrated on the feeble breaths of her companion resting along her haunches. Imogen had awakened briefly on their return from the cliffs, copses and groves, once a home, once a sanctuary, leaving with more morose sentiments for a land she’d trusted and loved, to deliver a brief message before falling into unconsciousness again. Sorry. When the apology had crossed over her membrane, the sylph had thought to collapse on her knees and beg forgiveness, to offer each and every benediction she’d promised to the earth, wind, and sky, for salvation to be restored and no dwelling dusk to batter over their valorous ones again. She’d asked for assistance in battle, blinded by the thought of victory, the clutching of a pilfered mother and her children, and Imogen had delivered, together, turning into the fire ignited in her essence, the savagery kindled in her soul. But instead of falling to the ground, she pressed on, forever resolved and resolute, carried her cherished kitsune along her rump, bore the weight of her injuries, her selfishness, and the world across her shoulders, slowly twisting her movements towards the mountains, high peaks extending their arms to her withering patriots.

Lena had promised to heal, to mend, to assuage the tender wounds her friends sustained and shouldered, felt songs in her heart, somehow untarnished, somehow impeccable, somehow pristine, to chant into fanciful arias, to stitch back seams of bitterness and forget her own. And as she traced the inner sanctum of the icicle borders, with the swelling joy of spring pressed against her, she raised her head to utter one vivid hymn, requesting the presence of those requiring her services. Though tired, though tormented, she’d gladly erase the gloom, the terror, the misery, of others from their wayward souls, from their entities and enigmas, to chase away the afflictions and anguish valiant efforts caused and enacted.

[For anyone who needs healing after the Edge/Throat battles.]

Her rest had been fitful, even after the night's conversation with Ruka had come to a close and left her more weary than she had been on arrival. The wounds had ceased leaking, this was good; even as she moved out of the cool cave and into the Basin, the rippling of her muscles didn't rip back open what had been seamed together in the throws of her sleep. She made each step carefully, still, and with very little flair compared to what normally would have graced her movements. She had heard Lena's song drift across the still air of the mountain pass, the notes rousing her, and while sleep still clung to the corners of her eyes, she knew that the carnage upon her top line required attention well before the moment at hand.

The look of worry upon Ruka's face had trampled any illusions she had of it being much worse in sensation than in reality.

In all honestly, she hadn't slept much longer than an hour, rather pondered various ways in which she could better herself, to avoid the mishaps that had ensued over the course of the invasions. Mostly irritated with her own failures, the mare contrived ways in which the battle in the Edge may have played out in her favor, and no matter how she differed her the video in her head, every movement she altered still resulting in the dragon being the deciding factor; she couldn't fly, and had no one but herself to evade the creature with.

The vision of Lena and Imogen further riled her feathers at the thought of companions, taking note, not for the first or last time, that the two seemed so perfectly fitted to one another. The white and sapphire fox devil was draped across the bay's rump, both of their figures worn down by the battle in the forest. Concern wrote itself into the lines between the pain that each step brought her, but a pride in her people lifted her head as she approached the pair, knowing that while they had returned without the spoils they had wished, those who had marched into battle having proven that their hearts had not frozen solid in the long months of waiting, standing still as death upon the peak of the mountain. Their loyalty still burned, and for this, and this alone, Illynx was thankful.

"Lena," she called ahead of her softly, the agonizingly slow pace at which the Lady moved quickening only slightly after the close of the healer's name, "I am glad to see you made it home." She halted a couple of feet in front of the bay unicorn and her bonded, her golden eyes sweeping across the weary form of Imogen, concern for the small creature lighting her gaze, however unusual it may be for her to worry for those she knew. Perhaps it was that her responsibility to them was felt more keenly now that she and Psyche had to guide their movements, that they each would turn to the Lady's and ask which step should be taken next.

She did not know, and it burned more deeply than the carnage upon her back ever would.

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

Crooning calamity echoed through her ears, like a whispering, strangling hymn of delusion and debauchery, and she tried to shelter her hums against the bombardment of malicious upheaval. The world was a constant reminder of her own decadent distortions; a victory claimed by rage, by wrath, by ire, the tiny, humble creature resting along her hind, the glorious enchantments and danger of a beautiful world tarnished by fumbling missteps. Her mind was an unforgiving precipice of all her insecurities arriving to the surface, fermenting in the haunting, enigmatic pulse of their darkened haven, and she wished to maintain the simple smile once granted across her lips, pushing through the fog, through the gloaming, through the nocturnal agony crushing and crashing against their thresholds. Violent revelations stinging, stabbing, lacerating until she was an empty shell, collected shambles of all her pursuits, all her convictions torn and maimed – still the nymph searched through the gloom and yearned to make it right, resolution scraping along the vivid pulse of her heart. Eternally tarnished, tainted, beckoning evil and villainy to shatter the remnants of her beneficence, her whims, her fancies and tenderness; if she were to offer her salvation, her sanctuary, her sanctum over and over again, warble infinite arias, would it render forgiveness? Would it bestow clemency, proffer mercy? Or was she forever damned, banished and renounced from the heavens, layered and labored, cumbersome and woven into the entrails of guilt, shame and forbearance? Would one melody invoke the charms relinquished and forgotten? And how, after all these wicked, gnarled, bony corruptions and infernal eruptions, sinners and martyrs united to become the licentious, iniquitous rhythm of shadow and animosity, were they to snare their members back from the misty gallows, the suffocating sands? Her eyes touched upon the distant peaks, the wondrous horizon, and pondered over the worth of her fall, back into the capricious, sinister corridors of yesteryear.

Illynx’s voice drifted into her mind, and the sylph swiftly swerved her noble cranium towards the gilded Lady, dipped her tiara in respect, allowed her gaze to drift over the avenues of torn flesh, sundered sinew, spoiled munitions of a blade downcast and foiled. A sigh melted from her chest, prospered into the midnight air with a heavy, ponderous silence, saddened and burdened all over again to see the arduous requiem molded over the golden creature. Her slow pace, the shift, taut, rigid course of muscles, merely defined the efforts and effects of battle, and said naught of how the spirit was wielded and woven thereafter. Had she won? Had she lost? Did she feel punctured and defeated like Lena, or proud, defiant, still audacious even with the glimmer and splendor of battle had caved in upon their heads? Did she have a plan to snag back those left behind, rubble in the petulant abyss? The laureled laureate took in the concern etched over the other mare’s face, and begged it away, placed the wan, sad smile, worn down and plucked away from the edges of the dais of war, upon the creases of her lips again. She had no aim to have another worry and fret over her ailments, not when there were so many others to heal, so many others to save, mend and assuage, even when her own soul couldn’t be soothed. A simple harmony floated from her throat, a tender warble, like the embrace of an old friend. “Illynx, I’m pleased to see you’ve managed the same.” How many of them hadn’t yet? If she were to search the ruins and scaffolds of their broken pieces, would she find them amidst the rubble, be capable of dragging them to their sanctum? A delicate pause followed, eyes closing, feeling the small, meek presence of Imogen, drawing and absorbing the essence of the earth as she attempted to muster the concoctions of her enchantments. Stare reawakened, she asked one more query before prospering the depth of her allurements. “Shall I sing for you?”

Crestfallen, that was the best way Illynx could describe that sad smile, so strange on the normally brilliant gleam of Lena's mask. Illynx understood the light behind her eyes, she herself felt it when others looked upon her while she was weak; she'd rather that the sun just burned their gaze away, leaving black pits where eyes had once been. It could not be said that she didn't worry for the bay and her bonded, but she did try to wipe her pitying expression from existence, though afraid that in the absence of concern for the healer, her own demoralized soul might peer through her well kept facade.

Why would it matter if she knew my soul was sore? she thought to herself, rather grimly, as Lena's voice reached out to stroke at her ears, comforting in its tone but laced with a sorrow that was normally not present in the angel's speech. Her nod was curteous, her gaze distant as the other unicorn's in their inner struggles, I do not believe she would condemn me.

It did nothing to ease her discomfort at being so utterly weak of spirit, to be cast into despair so easily by a land rat and her pet. And when she thought of Kou, of the white mare's children... it was nearly more than Illynx could hold within her brain and remain sane, but thankfully for the bay and gold mynx, her life had been an endless struggle against the current, and while the waves were heavy and hard upon her, she remained abreast the teeming waters. She would simply not accept the matter of the prisoners held within the Edge as closed, would not let her own disgust at her weakness pull her under, not when all her life she had been alone to wander, now surrounded by so many who seemed, despite her own hesitations to believe the idea, to hold concern for her well being. After a long while of pondering the theory, Illynx decided to let her guise slip from her, the frustrations she felt over the recent events bleeding out of every pore, her refined stance releasing to show the pain she felt so acutely but refused to let others see, for distaste of their judgements.

But Lena bore the same failure, at least one, anyway, and that was good enough of a reason for Illynx to share her own broiling emotions with the obviously morose healer. If she could not trust this one, who had been with her people for so long, then there were few within the land that she could afford to show any semblance of her mortality to.

She smiled sweet as could be imagined from such a rancorous wench, Lena's query striking to the heart of the matter at hand. "If you have the energy and will not short yourself," the mare replied, her golden eyes swiveling about to meet the gentle, earth tone gaze of the healer, "there are many things that need to be accomplished that cannot be in my state of ruin." A slender laugh broke from her, a wretched sounding thing, full of bitterness instead of genuine amusement. "Dragons," she balked, her head shaking to and fro in annoyance at the thought, her gaze flashing vehemently as the image of the slender blue beast flitted across her mind, the word itself a curse to condemn Zaffre and all his kind to a pit of flames.

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

The songbird attempted to piece together all the raw sentiments and toss them aside, so they couldn’t, wouldn’t, bleed into her arias, into her ballads, into her former whimsies. She couldn’t heal another without the power and declaration of her hopes, her convictions, her aspirations and wild, bountiful dreams, the ones bounding across clouds, stars, constellations and twilight reveries, those lost in the paradise of another time, another place. But they weren’t forgettable images; easily placed into a dark corridor of her mind, never viewed, never seen, never unraveled in front of the herd she cherished and fought for. Imogen, brave and sacrificing, biting into the flesh of her enemy, only to be thrown against thickened timber, and herself, reacting with guilt, with sadness, and then overwhelming fury pouring into her lungs, into her chest, into her heart, until she was naught more than flame and ferocity. Was that who she truly was, tucked into the recesses of her benevolence and honor – another beast awakened and incited? She tried to slip the nagging, persistent thought into a burdened breath, an inaudible sigh slinking into the edge of wounded patriots, tucked away for some subsequent day where she could dwell upon the splintered, fragmented ghosts of her composure. Instead, her eyes maintained focus back upon Illynx, the creature truly hurting, touched and scalded by the stroke of draconic furor, instilled by the trust the golden creature had in her, to allow herself witnessed in scarred regalia. The honeyed stare became fixated by the lines of burnt, pierced pelt, shining abhorrence in the burdened moonlight, flickering in its warm rancor, boiling rage melted upon hide, rendering choking bitterness with each movement of her figure. How much had the gilded one borne, in the depths of their desecration and persecution? How many more were out there like her, afraid to beg for calamity and animosity to be soothed, assuaged? The nymph’s movements were careful, precise, taking note of the surrounding injuries, Imogen barely moving upon her hind, drumming up a hum, a hymn, to surround the world with serenity instead of Stygian bombardments.

Her eyes closed thereafter, lashes brushing over dished cheeks, a heartbeat, a quick intake of breath, as she grabbed ahold of the enchantments encased in her chest. To heal, to mend, to bestow tunes and melodies, fostering well wishes where’d they been lost, tossed, sullied and ruined, grace and finery restoring the laced ailments of yesteryear’s blinding, aching failures. A bright beacon of tenderness, compassion, and unearthly beneficence, she commanded and wielded the power, the invocation, to make the world remember gratitude, clemency and mercy, strangling adversity in the bout of her divine pursuits. She glowed, a candle in the nocturnal eaves, pouring a rhythm of her confidence, her essence, her ethereal demands, into each syllable and phrase, dipping them in gold, polishing them in silver, tracing them in ambrosia until they were sumptuous tranquilities.

“I smite the wicked,
I destroy the ruthless,
And I cherish the strong.
I admire the tenacious,
Now, I give to the indomitable.”

Refusing to heed the warnings, she gave every untamed regard of her power to the leader’s rugged distortions, rustling the chords of her charity, her melodious strings and threads, raising her head towards the skies as she soaked in the lost, absent fervor of the sun, offered every grasp of her magic. She prompted her to grasp, to hold, as it flickered over the length of torn skin and ravaged flesh. Even as exhaustion flickered against her mind, even as a silent warning beat from Imogen’s unconscious form, she reached and plucked for more, until her body was brittle, drained.

“Take the tunes,
You, the unyielding,
The steadfast,
The resolute,
And mold it to your gilded blade.”

She wouldn’t finish until Illynx begged for her to cease, until her body became naught more than a sacrificial rite, blending and blooming in the scattered haze of defeat.

Of all the magic that Helovia bestowed to it's people, the craft of healing was perhaps the most serene she had ever encountered; the lines of weariness that had etched the bay mare's normally supple features reverted into her soft, demure expression. Her amber gaze seemed fixated upon Illynx's spine, a sensation that brought a bit of discomfort to the ravaged warrior of a woman, perhaps even shame. She found that there was no sort of pity in the look, at least from her perspective, easing the knot that threatened to expand and devour her heart in the fleeting moments of silence between the accumulation of Lena's power and the first delicate notes of song, her own golden gaze tearing itself from the enchantment that was written all across the healer's face and focusing instead upon the resting frame of the kitsune upon her haunches.

The first notes hummed across her skin, sending every severed edge to tingling as if lit up but fantastic flames that pleasantly warmed the flesh rather than scalded it. To each bounding note, Illynx clung her ears, her gaze watching the slumbering fox-devil with an intensity that betrayed her desire to witness the struggle of the magic as it swept across Lena's face. It would perhaps be too much, to see her wane and ebb with the pull of her song, the guilt the Lady would feel over the pressure she applied to the seemingly spent healer perhaps enough to send her away.

But that fire; it was so wondrous.

No longer did the deep ruts in her flesh burn under the open air, the dried blood about the edges cracking and flaking to the earth as the wounds stitched themselves shut, brindle becoming as whole as it ever had been upon the spine of the Gilded Blade, her own gaze shutting tight as the last notes of the song streamed upwards into the mountain sky, the burning it's most intense as the final strands of sinew had regained their proper place. And then, suddenly, the sensation stopped, the final words of Lena's song pounding into her temples, a residual pain of that which no longer plagued her back and shoulders, the rump that had been brutalized by the blue's wicked tail.

"I have never..." she whispered, her lids fluttering back open to find Lena still held in the throws of her power, "why have I refused this all my life?" The last words slid from her lips, still barely above a whisper, the unicorn suddenly filled with a vigor that had not been a part of her since well before the battles had ever been dreamed of and a vibrant devotion to the subtle twists and bends of the magic that permeated the air. She stumbled forward a few paces to rest a dark tinged nose upon the shoulder of the nearly shuddering song weaver, breathing in her soft scent as she regained her voice and unsure how to draw the bay back from her trance other than the gentle touch and a few, simple words, "A beautiful song, Lena." Perhaps you are an angel.

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

Heart swollen and driven to soothe, mind encased in the glow, in the brilliance of enchantments simmering, smoldering, christened in the midnight oeuvre, blinding rhapsody chained to the inner sanctum of her soul, beholding sanctuary, offering shelter, consuming the harmony of the moon, the melancholy of the darkening shades of their faltered strides. Left to fend off their bruises, their upheavals, their pallid, waning complexions, taking the stars from their eyes, the glory from their steps, the beat of their power, and she fought to stave off the anguish, the torment, force the drifting misery, the wicked, wretched contortions of their failures to reaching each ethereal piece of soul. A hum, a twist, a turn, the dialing of potent melodies, choreographed art pouring against shriveling, heathen fortitudes, forgetting the shame, the anomalies of her own perplexing actions, her own dismayed resilience, her own shambled shell. Only when the final hymn dabbled across her lips did she open her eyes, returning to the constellations, to the horizon, to the skies, embedded into the heavy distortions of iron will, stalwart, staunch resolutions, heaven smoked and squandered. Overcome, overwrought, she sighed and nearly crumbled, limber legs quaking, shaking, unsteady and reeling from the alluring, beguiling veil of stitching chords, of dulcet, soft, sanguine, angelic treaties and convictions, salvation in the core of all their spirits – holding her aloft was the sheer determination, the luminous glory of her enlightened companion, the affixed perseverance languished and lacquered to her body, fervent, ardent, passionate dabblings of finessed sacrifice. Imogen stirred, acknowledging the songbird, the lady, with a feral chirp, a weary croon, before returning to another restful slumber, and Lena thought of nothing more to join her, but remained, whimsical, haggard, worn, kissed by celestial bodies, proud and glorified by the affirmation of Illynx’s wellbeing. Perhaps the only gift at her bestowal, besides smiles, besides grins, besides merriment or laughter, and the latter wasn’t welcome in these smoldered tapestries, where the canvases burned under the bewitching, idle traces and trances of loss, upheaval, insurrection and sedition, the criss-crossed formulation of plans sundered, destroyed. The fey and fairy bowed to the bestowed compliments, drank in the sight of the gilded creature rearmed, reanimated, mended and assuaged. She pressed another series of harmonious notes across her lips, parting over the length of her lips, drifting into hushed ease of former whimsy, tangled into adversity, knotted in tribulation. “Thank you. Is there anything else you require?” A fatigued beam molded across her mouth, then fell, too jaded and drained to foster long-standing jubilation. Instead, a query brewed in her throat, and she slid her gaze elsewhere, against the haunting length of shadows, for fear of instigating a harsh reaction. “What do we do now?” And where are the others, the wounded figures of this unwavering band? Where is Faelene, who fought against liberation?

The healer's question immediately extinguished any flickers of humor that danced across her features, the golden horned warrior finding herself unable to provide a solid answer. Even she had not had much time to think about what would come to pass if they hadn't succeeded; she had never dreamed that they could have lost in the first place. And now, standing here whole but also dreadfully broken, she felt a chasm spread broad in her heart and slowly begin to gnaw away at her soul. She was unsure how to deal with being this inadequate, unable to accept her own losses, much less those of others. A part of her wanted to find Psyche and give her a swift kick to the chin, but even Illynx knew that her much beloved companion was not truly to blame for any of the things that had come to pass. There had been no figurative gun pointed to her temple when the golden bitch had accepted the black Lady's offer to lead alongside her, and even Illynx had to admit that she had been overjoyed at the prospect of so much power laid bare at her hooves.

In retrospect, she should have refused. She should have never agreed to run into the forest alongside her herd mates, nor ever even stepped a single golden leg out of the borders. But she had, and there was no turning back, only the bleak and narrow path that would lead them forward.

"As we have always done, love," she softly replied, though her words lacked their usual vigor and seemed to leak her heart's weeping all across the frosty earth of the Basin. It was no secret to any of them that their band of black minded unicorns had suffered greatly in their existence, first being robbed of a home and now, the same devilish freaks held their children as hostages, and not a single one of their punishing blows had seemed to do more than draw more pointing fingers and cruel snickers from those who would see them fall. "Move forward." The words slipped free in a sigh, her golden eyes dark and miserable as she thought back on their long walk to their now comfortable mountain home. Was this more painful than that loss? At this particular time, she couldn't be sure.

I hope that they do not come to retaliate, now that they see that we are weak, she thought to herself, the cringe of concern perhaps noticed by the healer, though she would not elaborate on her fears, that all who left will return and stay, knowing the same. The look of sorrow upon the normally jubilant mare had left Illynx holding her deepest concerns to her breast, not caring to drag the bay further into the depths of despair that already seemed to fringe the borders of all who had gone into battle, their heads full of glory and triumph, only to return home with nothing more than a new collection of bruises and scars.

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

Perhaps the sylph had wished for a plan, a true, fluid notion towards restoration and renewal, where the harpsichord raptures returned, where the sovereignty gleamed and prospered, where the snowcapped peaks and pinnacles dominated the scenery, the horizon, without the melting pervasion of failure and defeat. Where their pride didn’t turn to desolation, where the lands didn’t falter into listless temptations, languid enticements, falter and stumble in their staunch, steadfast efforts – but as Illynx’s words slipped from her mouth, the songbird wasn’t granted any formulation of procedure, scheme or proposal. Were their depths too haggard now for measures and tactics, too weary and maligned from the crushing weight of wounded members, fleeing, fleeting chances and aspirations? Where did they go from here, the weakened, the weary, the struggling and striving? The fey glanced elsewhere, set her sights beyond the gilded femme, capturing the swindled eaves and the sweltering shadows, the still, glistening lake, the smoking fumes of the hot springs, and set her mind to the task at hand. Move forward. She knew how to persevere, how to persist, how to wind the strands and lace of her tenacity, of her stalwart, valorous determination, how to run her heart for the land, for the skies, for the heavens and divine arts, but she desired, yearned, wanted for a solution and salvation that seemed perpetually out of reach. What were they to do when their goals seemed endless, everlasting, boundless, consigned to the highest summits, the lowest valleys? Imogen stirred long enough, maybe thwarted in efforts to sleep from the constant, gliding thoughts of her beloved, chirped an answer within her mind, still forever capable of soothing the ruffled bombardments of the fairy. You send someone there.

The notion crossed over the nymph and sent another blazing, barbed trail of sentiments flowing back through the caverns of her hopes, dreams, reveries torn asunder and choked by their own newfound brutality; the former bout of her thoughts before they’d crossed over to endurance and diligence. Hadn’t they sent a creature to withhold a powerful being, Kri (and she’d met her before, had felt the press of her wrath, had smiled in the face of her fury and displeasure), the incorruptible Faelene? Where was their dedicated Thief, their fair and honest brigand, solidifying loyalty when the darkest depths attempted to grasp and strangle the sedition of her splendor? Lena slid her gaze back to Illynx, noted the cringe, the concern, and tried desperately to convey some element of grandeur amongst the tirades of their thwarted ambitions, their ailing yearnings. It was likely that her next question would ruin the attempts, but she craved the knowledge, the answer, the remedy for one moment. Her voice crooned again, brimmed in the harmonious lilt of hymns and hums, reached for the snippets of opulence remaining within the ethereal air of the Basin, quiet, unassuming. “Have you seen Faelene?”

Physical pain. In its absence, she found that the most prominent of her hurts was now one of the soul. It was not that she was easily hindered by such ails, but that she had always seemed to have a hollow ache in her chest that pressed against the corners of her mind, lulled her thoughts away from the struggle that Lena fought alongside her. Was her life to be a string of failures, like blood tinted daisies ripped from their roots and trampled under foot? She refused to submit to such a notion, her pride roused like a serpent within her chest, it's neck arched and fangs glistening in the moonlight. Short lived, as many of her emotions were, was the rise of the snake, it's avid mouth sealed shut by the words that leaked out from the healer's tender lips.

"Have you seen Faelene?"

Her mouth pressed firmly into a line of displeasure, her ears swaying back at quarter tilt and her golden eyes twinkling with a faint aura of sadness. No, she hadn't. The brave thief was no were to be seen by the time Illynx had returned home, and neither was there a single feather to be seen of the bitch Kri. Not having survived as long as she had on good looks alone, Illynx knew good and well were Faelene was now, a thought that made her stomach knit itself up and a tinge of a head ache began to press in on her temples. Even more worrisome than the keeper of the winged she-devil, however, was the absence of Psyche. A long, thoughtful glance is sent in a southern direction, across forests and snowy peaks to where the pit of sand lie.

Was Psyche there still?

"I have not," she stated flatly, still gazing out towards the Throat's ultimate location, and though she could not see it even from such a vantage as the Basin, she could bring to mind its sandy borders, the heat rippling off the crushed diamonds that comprised the footing of the place. Even more fearsome than the desert were it's inhabitants. A tinge of bile met the back of her throat, her eyes narrowing as she fought away the sensation of hopelessness that had begun to threaten her at the completion of the healing spell. "Though I dare say we both know where she might be found."

Grim faced and somber, the golden marked mynx turned her full attentions back to the healer, this time her turn to ask questions that, while she was sure Lena did not know the answers to, pressed in upon her like great waves. "I don't suppose you've seen Psyche?" meekly queried the Lady as she shadowed her gaze, her voice just barely above a whisper, not wishing for the healer to see the blood raining out of her heart in the tender flickering of her eyes, not truly wanting to hear the terrible and gut-wrenching no that was sure to follow.