I'll dance in the light of a freezing sun</style>

and sing you the tales of the burning sea</style>

The angel floats through her new home in a soft-serve symphony of silver bells and azure key. Dismal, she finds it, but charming in a way; mashed cacophony of mountain and green, the silenced vale is a means to an end. It is washed in white and clouded color, curtains of light that pierce the sky; in the clear mountain evenings she has stared to the sky, and found it pleasant, if not ideal. The crash of the sky cannot contend with the sea, the waves of the stratosphere no match for white-capped fingers of beckoning brine.

But our angel floats through the snow serene, no image of discontent on the lines of her brow, no whisper of harsh misery in the blue of her eyes. A picture of perfection and innocuous charm, with the bite of intelligence in the ring of her laugh; Zuriel has a purpose which leads her on this day, a rumor she follows on cloven hooves of silver steel. Illynx, the rumor spews an infamous name, Lady of the Basin, Queen of the Hill. She has heard it murmured, muttered, cursed; from the little she knows she knows that Illnyx is a force to contend with, with little love lost between the unknown mare and our angel's kin. The white wraith smiles in the shade of sterile stone: a challenge is enjoyable, welcomed, rejoiced.

In the light of the moon the angel dances, an opalescent form in the full glow of fall. The silver orb is full and bright; it illuminates her world to fantastic effect, the damp of the night frozen in crystalline baubles around pale legs. She has settled in tundra at the edge of the lake, breathing in sulfur and mineral and warmth; "Cinnoru," she breathes out, "Give me strength on this night." The prayer is accompanied by a flickering smile; softened, strengthened, the mare's heart is frozen but her eyes glow with warmth.

She lifts her head to the cold night sky, crowned horns glittering, tail draped elegant on the smooth, stony earth. "Lady Illynx," she calls, and somehow she knows that the Lady will hear. "I beg of you audience!" She announces no more, for guard must be held; she knows little of this Lady, who knows less still of her; she will pass judgment first, and establish a method of interrogation from there.

@[Illynx]