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?”