She’s walking through the Threshold, perhaps not the smartest idea when one is swollen with child, but Illynx is not a common woman and does not do what most would when in her situation. Her ears are ever watchful, of course, more so than usual, but she would rather forfeit her life immediately than be confined to a mountainous prison for the duration of her pregnancy like some sort of delicate and deathly ill bird of immense value. She was not a pet, or a creature that could be held by any bounds, even when death and danger loomed outside her doorway.

That is part of the reason why she’s here; her nose is constantly inhaling deep breaths that she half hopes will bring her the smell of that dirty, white faced slut that brought such pain and trauma to Arah and her daughters, or that she’ll over hear the word Regime in a conversation and be able to slyly come in and steal away their desired trinket, whether it wore a horn or not.

She had no qualms about lying to a new arrival, leading them to the heart of the kingdom and leaving them sorely alone and lost in the middle of it all, especially if it meant she’d be digging barbs into the side of her enemies by doing so.

But it is another smell familiar to her that reaches her muzzle, one that takes a long while for her to absorb and recognize; when it does click within her, she completely halts all motion and stands with golden eyes white and glistening. That girl, from all that long while ago, deep purple with pale, smoky hair, and her delightfully strange way of communicating; how long ago had it been that she had run with her and Zima across the Valley?

It hadn’t been too very long after she’d come home from her wandering, that was sure, and she tenderly branches down the path that she believes the smell is arriving from, searching for nearly thirty whole minutes before discovering the girl lying in a crumpled pile on the forest floor. The Lady gasps and tuts, sweeping forward to gently press her muzzle against the girl’s throat to check for breath. With a sigh of aggravation, she realizes that she can’t recall her name, if she’d ever learned it at all, but she does vaguely remember that this is the child of the Thief, Faelene.

"Faelene?!" she calls after her golden crown rises swiftly, eyes searching the nearby area for the shape of their missing shadow walker, limbs striking out in a semicircle around the fallen child as she continues to call out, a part of her hoping that the dark mare will crash through the tree line, still alive and well and not devoured by darkness, "Faeleneeee! Are you out there?"