For some reason, she believed the shabby little man when he stated his condolences as to the old man’s disappearance; it was slightly touching to know that such loyalties still lay among her people, that they could still feel such compassionate sensations towards one another as nostalgia. She herself hadn’t seen it in many others but Psyche and herself, though she was sure her dearest friend had been close to her own political companion, Mauja. They had, after all, produced a child, hadn’t they? Still, she could not know if either would die for the other as she surely would to save the Empress, should such a situation arise – the thought that it would only succeed if Psyche didn’t have the same idea in her head drew an out of place smile to her lips, which she quickly stifled in the presence of a sad subject.

This was why she had always chosen to be alone, hadn’t it?

Thankfully for her, she discovered the dapple’s eyes shuttered and a subtle sigh escaping his lips, allowing her to have hopefully covered her slip up in his sorrows. That it was as if the God’s themselves had allowed for such tactful covering of her chipping mask sent a thrill through her that added an extra gleam to her friendly façade, the twinkle burning in her golden eyes as they watched the milky ones of this strangely horned man rise his own back to her.

She smiles in response to his words on the Haruspex, nodding in concordance with his polite decision. She cannot blame anyone for being hesitant to replace their teacher – not that she could understand such nuances of emotion, or let them bleed into her own personal affairs. Like much Illynx knew of how to appear normal and filled with flower scented sparkles, she had learned this fact from observation, and observation alone.

The poor wretch hadn’t ever been taught how to feel anything other than hatred and how to build her walls as thick as the mortar could support.

"Huyana is kind and wise, I’m sure you’ll find her to be quite suited to gaze into the mirror," attempts to comfort the bitch, her lips a soft curve that hides her inner distrust of the woman. She had mothered a filly of Deimos’ loins, and Illynx was no fool – the Haruspex belonged to the Basin or to the Reaper, and not her. The fact was bitter on her tongue, festered in her mind, as did all the invisible ties looping them together; if she was ever to be successful, they would have to come to love and respect her, wouldn’t they?

Simple minded as she is, she does not believe that they can love both of their leads, as different as they are. She believes she is the only suitable candidate for office, and fully intends on slandering and burning her way to the top of the roster if it grows necessary. For now, she was doing what Psyche would ask her to do (of this she was sure) by simply observing, planting small seeds where she saw the opportunity to turn a blade to her favor.

The chatty stallion draws her interest with his next stream of commentary, though it is not so much the subject (she’s not really much of the studious type) so much as it is the enthusiasm with which he rambles onward with it. In the rapid chattering of his voice, she finds a good hearted friendliness that contradicts the less-than-sane appearance of the bloke; to Illynx, however, the combination only makes him all the more intriguing, having found herself listening to his tale of the wilds with a rising interest until something black and horrible splattered onto the stallion’s head.

She’s backwards and away from the shocking scene about three feet before she even knows she’s moving, and just as suddenly as the feathers had splattered to the earth, she is there. Illynx finds her with a broad golden gaze that is laced with fear, a primal terror inspired by both the appearance and aura radiating from the winged bitch. She wants to run, but hesitates in the presence of the Disciple, looking back to him shocked and horrified as she has ever been in her life.

Is this what Deodat had warned of?

"What in the world is tha-" she manages to half shout, half moan at the stallion before he’s shouting back at her. Excuse me? she thinks to herself as the small male in suddenly in her shoulder, tossing her backwards and in a semicircle as she tries to maintain her balance. She’s growling with fury at the insult until she sees the stallion flying away from the shuddering impact of the zombie whore, her snarl of offense blooming into one of terror and honor inspired loathing.

Sometimes I wonder if she isn’t half wolf, herself.

"Just who the fuck do you think you are?" she finds herself belligerently screaming at the monster, limbs trembling from want of escape while her heart beats the drums of war. She knows it is in vain, to shout at the devil so, though isn’t really sure how she knows; perhaps it’s because the thing is clearly dead. Perhaps it is because she radiates the aura of the soulless. She does not know.

All she knows is that she’s pissed… and suddenly quite distracted by the chattering of the little deranged man. Her stare is one of disbelief, that he can be flung so easily by a mare who obviously has naught the strength to do so and still be distracted by science, eyes flying from the monster to the stallion nervously.

"I’m afraid we must go, darling," she says to the little man, though whether or not he’ll take her lead is up to him. She can’t force him to run anywhere. "We needed to go yesterday." She is backing away with her eyes trained on the devilish fiend, the notes of her tender voice pleading for understanding in the light haired stallion that it is not safe to remain here.

But she won’t leave him. She can’t.

She wears a crown of ice, does she not?

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.