Illynx pays little attention to scars unless they are particularly gruesome or have been intentionally pointed out to her; she figures they are a price paid for life, for belongings, for comfort. It is a toll paid in blood, and she has given plenty of coins to that oblique machine. Only one ear is whole upon her crown, the right partially melted away by the acidic bite of a mare known as Confutatis, daughter of warlords, and her limbs and belly are marked with streaking, white scars from a great battle with a draconic beast. Dozens of other marks line her body, but they only increase her beauty, as she is concerned; danger is alluring, owning ones power requires a certain level of strength, and she feels that the various marks on her body justify her title and her deep set love of self.

She is not afraid of pain, and does not shy away from combat; the repercussions for her violent lifestyle are worn proudly, and only once has she turned to a healer, out of necessity. Life is more precious than medals of honor. She is not so foolish as to choose her pride over her existence.

The bow given to her is noted with little concern or return of any such gesture; with her newfound comforts had come newfound behaviors, and she for one was not going to tilt her head to a strange and beautiful woman who had requested her presence when she may have done so in the past. Her trust doesn’t stretch very far any more (not that it ever had to begin with), and she finds that she is hesitant around those she lives with, a secret fear held in her heart that they smile only to her face and wish death to her behind her turned back. The woman who has summoned her, however, seems straight forward with her desires, and the golden bitch is not one to with hold information from her kin, even if she figures they’re all out to get her in the end.

Her smile is soft on her lips as she replies, a sugary coating over the lack of concern she truly felt for this sleuth. If she was truly a good wraith, she would learn these things on her own. Still, it does much for a woman’s already swollen ego to be come to for advice and knowledge, and she will oblige the strange, myriad horned white mare’s desires. The creature is confident enough to inspire some faint hints of respect for her in the eyes of the Gilded Blade, despite the lack of knowledge as to where her own pawns sat in the midst of the game.

Perhaps, Illynx wonders, the mare desires more than she asks for. A good thing to keep in mind, considering the latest illuminating events that had come to pass.

"Standing?" she inquires, innocently enough though she is mildly irritated that this stranger has not better expressed what she wanted to know of her. Within the borders, or without? she wants to ask further, though she refrains, attempting to keep herself in control. The mare had mainly wished to know how she might be useful, to which Illynx had no immediate answers other than to figure it out for her damn self.

That wasn’t the best sort of answer to give a potential ally, however, and so she thinks for a moment before she gives a deeper reply.

"The Throat and the Edge are of interest, of course," slowly begins the woman, words languorous on the chilly mountain air, "there has never been much love between us." Her smile is sarcastic and full of dark humor as she states the obvious, hoping that the phantom at least knows this much of the world in which she exists. There was, of course, the matter of the glass scorpion that had been brought to them by the Glazier and her gathering of men, but the more Illynx thought on it, the less she found that occurrence to be an act validated by Mirage. Her prior experiences with the painted mare who had made the thing led her to believe it was the overly hopeful and naïve thought processes of the moron that had driven her to craft and deliver a gift for the most nefarious of all herds in the realm.

At least a gift that had not come with sabotage in some form, such as the small scorpion that Ulrik had provided in return surely did, though she did not know for sure.

"There is little known of the outcast bands, and we have heard nothing from our alleged allies, the Foothills, since the failed rescues," she continues on, providing a few more tidbits of intelligence to the woman, still not entirely sure of what it is that the pale mare wants to know, "All of which are useful to know more of. You may choose your own path, in that regard, miss…?" She draws out the statement, hoping to earn a name from the woman’s lips by which to call her forward later.

She has to admit to herself that the spies within the Basin have grown fat and languid lately. She has seen no new prisoners brought in from the outside realms, no intelligence had been brought to her attention (she could hope little that Deimos would share much with her that had been brought to him) from the lands outside the borders, and the appearance of this eager wench has further alerted her to this problem. Pausing for a moment as a devious smile reaches her lips, she snaps her golden gaze onto that of Zuriel, a new and fun idea having sprung into her mind.

"Unless, of course, you enjoy head hunting?" croons Illynx, the words nearly a purr from her lips, her wolfish grin an added spice to the alluring tone of her delicate voice.