Even without a hyper-focus --albeit, a wayward one-- from that ungodly anathema lodged in her lungs, she'd be keen to notice the subtle way his body tenses; once a confidant swagger now vibrates with a new tension, the spark a visible tremor that races up his spine with a spidery, skittering crawl. The way his skin flinches under the onslaught fascinates Imonada and the ever-watchful trees around them seem to disburse into the shadows, contracting and blurring as the stallion demands her attention.

He's not playing, child.
No, I don't think so.

Her long, silky ears swivel and lay back into thick tresses as a mirror of his own. "Is 'at so?" She mutters quietly in response; there, a personal inflection finally replaces what was once words as lifeless and flat as a barren planet, unfathomably far away, now trembling with vitality. Her voice warm and smooth, a frothy cappuccino from that sweet little shop on the corner where the barista draws hearts and birds into the foam, a soprano with notes on a richer and darker end. Laced within is veiled apprehension, steadily organizing into a construct of fear, buffered with serenity she did not necessarily feel in wake of his comparatively volatile etiquette. His own language, in staggering contrast, thunderous and growling with the promise --the glowing lure-- of wild, indomitable, roaring storms.

Tightening her wings further against her as if a shield to deflect his harsh words, Imonada imperceptibly cants her lovely head to the side, brows etched, hideous purple-ringed eyes  --endlessly weeping-- narrowed in suspicion. While many others have lost their wits to the infectious lung rot, hers has remained somewhat intact; the downside, not to mention the obvious, was how her reality seemed to shift from one infinite point of divine sensation to the next in a hazy crawl.

"How can one be sae sure?" There is not much of a challenge in her tone; a bit incredulous, maybe awed, but more of a genuine inquiry from that insatiable curiosity that beats to the rhythm of her own lifeblood. It shortly becomes clear she has difficulty maintaining eye contact with him, her gaze flitting about his wall of a body like startled little fish.

"I ne'er ance imagined I would best ye. Truth be told, I did nae realize we were in a game!" With a pearl-bearing --and what a set of teeth they are, market's favorite-- grimace, his sudden and now immediate proximity compels her to rear up halfheartedly in a motion to turn herself away from him, quite ready to trot off hotly. The jet banner of thick hair that is her tail cocked, its stream a whirlwind of floating ink in fine calligraphic strokes against their bodies both as she twists.