The memories trickle in slowly as if through two tightly pressed stones, logical reasons why it is that she feels as if it is so terribly wrong for her to have been saved by this man of all men. The water seeps down her face from her dunk in the cool waters, and while the draft of the cave causes a ripple of a shiver to cross her body, it is more the thought that she was so consumed by the power loaned to her by the spell of shadow that causes her skin to quake, the fact that her own had not been sent to find her.

Her golden eyes search her surroundings as the kindly pegasus explains her predicament, her whole ear cast in the direction of his voice while the other explores the myriad sounds that crash against her in this hole. To her surprise, the sound of his mellow and masculine tones is soothing, a gentle undercurrent to the cacophony her heart as it beats against her ribs, the undulations of her thoughts; the child clings to him, strong Midas, as many women have done in the past and surely will in the years to come.

Illynx does not understand where her belly full of loathing has waltzed off to, as the links of her memory and that which he shared with her clinked together to form a palpable line of who she was, leading her back to the Basin and the caves and her splendidly beautiful, perfect herd.

"Thank you," she says quite sincerely, severing her gaze from the steep entrance into the caverns where it had come to settle to look upon her savior, her wonderment at still not understanding the final moments that the beast had walked within her leaving her with the same slightly baffled expression. She clears her throat as she glances down at her hooves, shimmering beneath the water that has her submerged to her belly, pulling herself from the water with sleek, black tail in tow, her pendants and golden back glistening with the residual liquid that clings to her flesh.

"You are called Midas, are you not?" inquires the sodden Lady, adjusting her body into one of relaxation to invite the man into a rare moment of nonviolent interaction from the usually not so welcoming bitch. She has heard of a painted stallion of the Throat who wears magical armor by such a name – it is her duty to know such things, after all – and finds it would be too odd for such a coincidence even in her state of temporary and light amnesia for two such males to exist.