Handsome, she thinks to herself as he approaches, admiring the lines and build that sang out the same lyricism that Ulrik did; a true man. Perhaps Deimos held this aura, also, but to the simple bitch, his atmosphere of pride was overwhelmed by the pervasive stench of death that clung to him, unlike the mad engineer and this other particularly fine piece of male flesh. More so than the bronze laden stallion she had met so many seasons ago in the bleak darkness of the endless night, however, this man nearly choked her with his presence, the sheer pride that carried each of his steps, the high tilt of his dual horns gleaming under the grey light of the cloud obscured sun.

He was no Deodat, to be sure – that gentle nod, his sweeping stoicism all lost in the romantic perfection that had been the tri-colored man in the tunnel of ice, but she had not seen him since that fateful, rain strewn day, and so she let herself absorb what physical blessings (so numerous, among this mountain’s people!) could be had on this new male figure.

She had noticed him during the meeting; one of the faces who had raised to grasp hungrily at the space vacated by the savage black stallion that now, much to the Lady’s chagrin, led alongside her. The wounds he’d worn then were mostly healed now, and she couldn’t help but recall similarly aged sores on the Engineer. Curious, she muses with an arched brow, delicately adjusting her position as she ruminates so that she may gaze more fully on the inky stag’s features.

It still had not ceased to amaze her how hesitant others had become in her presence since her simple title adjustments.

"Kind sir," she racks her brain for a name, but can remember nothing but something about Bloodskalders…Bloodskats. Ack. Either way, it is not his name. "I do not believe I know your name." A statement she was getting used to making; one could keep track of faces all day long, but without constantly talking to the underlings held upon the mountain, she could not keep up with their callings anymore than she could the number of rain drops that had touched her since birth. She tilts her crown playfully, attempting to let the sadness wash off of her like the water from the overhead boughs, but it is difficult; such a heavy burden, she feels it’s weight shift and groan across her back, but she does not whimper or stall in her efforts despite it’s urging her to fall to the ground.

"I am Illynx, the GildedBlade, Lady of the unicorns in the vale," but you already knew that, her gaze deviously gleams, "duocorns, also, in your case." Such lovely embellishments, the easily allured woman taking note of the runes scattered along their lengths now that she found herself more fully in the present; she finds them pleasing, a sign of the magic that flows through them all here upon the holy peak of the horned, their leisurely pillars of power. So fulfilling is the sight that she returns her pristine version of a bow, delicate features nodding to the earth before rising once more to their full height - still slight in comparison to the silver laced stag.