A figure was seen alongside the caves that rimmed the banks of the lake, the same set of coves that held the Haruspex mirror. She had watched him arrive with slight interest, recognizing him from meetings over a year past but not recalling his name, a stare provided to the objects that he carried with him. Unsure why he had been absent or if he meant to stay, she hovered several yards away and hopefully out of noticeable distance, her golden gaze pinned upon his dark pelt with a curious expression that drew a glimmer to her eyes.

It seemed he was looking for someone, but who? She knew the Weaver resided in a cave nearby this location, and once, the old Myrddin had lived within the same set. She had not seen the ancient creature in a long while, however, and so she could only assume that he had either died (most probable) or wandered off to find a place to die (also highly probable). Her question was answered momentarily by the sound of his voice, surprisingly innocent on the fragile mountain air, calling out for the ancient unicorn.

Her smile was soft and partially mocking, in part amused with his devotion to his master and yet ostracizing him for being gone for so long as to seek a man who was no longer there. Stepping forward from her cover, as she took note of no others approaching to converse with the unique and dirty stallion, Illynx approached with no sense of secrecy or danger, her crown proudly raised and steps purposeful.

Once within ear shot, she playfully calls out to him, a soft song on the mountain air. "He’s no longer among the unicorns of this mountain," dances her voice, followed by her golden etched frame, "the one you would seek to learn of the Spark is called Huyana, now." She pauses a respectful distance away, more for her own pleasures than the comfort of the man. He smells like the wilderness, the same strange odors that permeated Ulrik, but his scent was not masked with the sparkling smell of metal and electricity. He smelled like something dead.

Another look at the pile of objects he’d carried in with him draw to mind a memory of the same stallion coming to a herd meeting, the fetid pelts of dead animals clutched between his teeth. She barely restrains a shudder.

"How long have you wandered, Disciple," she asks, a cruel jest at his lack of knowledge wrapped in a gauze of kindness, "that you seek a master long gone from our numbers?"

There was a river once,
with many round stones
enchanted by shallow hopes
of embracing the ocean;
water is peculiar this way,
how its life is a line
that cannot bend or change
without the approval of its bed.