There is a small gathering occurring along the borders of the lake, normally disinteresting as the water was the usual place for friends and family to gather and discuss life, politics, and philosophy. What makes this group interesting is in part due to the presence of the dark Engineer, a man whom she finds alluring for no real reason other than it is how she feels when she looks upon him; the group is also intriguing because she does not know the names of the other two present, something that she finds a shameful quality in a Lady who prides herself on her socialization skills and being able to name any one soul in her home at a moments mention.

That, and one of the company present is a woman, and a pretty one at that; a long look is cast onto her from a distance, sizing up the entire situation in a moment and sweeping over on long, gold dipped legs with her broad, fat belly swaying with each step, golden back gleaming in the light of the afternoon, ears pricked forward and a soft smile stitched into her features. Though she feels slightly jealous of the not exponentially stretched waist of the other woman present, she is careful to let none of it show in her cool and proud demeanor, no degree lost to the height of her crown or grace discarded in her step.

It seems she has come into the conversation late, catching the words, ”Lena is the healer since d’Artagnan stepped down…”, the rest hitting her as she comes to a halt alongside the father of the child within her, his next words drawing from her a forcefully choked back heave of laughter, a single peel of delight breaking into a hard gagging sound as she looks over at the Engineer with a glimmer of humor in her eyes and her smile changed from friendly to slightly apologetic as her gaze moves to the other two in the company. Holding her tongue for the time being, she listens as Ulrik grunts disapprovingly of the Nightshade and continues on into other herd matters, quickly understanding that this is a run down of things that have come to pass.

His last words sting, she admits such, but her pride is as immovable as ever and so is her mask, golden eyes looking softly at the mad Wildman as she ponders what he has said. It is true; perhaps that is why it hurts so badly to hear it spoken aloud. While her darling had failed in many ways, she had kept her hounds entertained; Illynx was too preoccupied building pretty statues and eating more grass than she had seemingly devoured in the entirety of last year to cause worry and panic among the hornless and unworthy. Either way, she had other plans, slow to evolve, and she was loathe to stir up the pit of vipers once more when there was a chance to drop a bomb in and end it all with one fell swoop.

If only she might find the blueprints for said bomb…

"Again?" she chooses, "we are still better off than most, Ulrik. The great Qian is broken and without their wretched Dragonqueen while we can still boast the sour attitude of our old and cantankerous fellows." Her brow arches with good humor as she looks long and thoughtfully at the Weaver, feeling her own age suddenly in that statement and all the years that had defined it; surely, they had lost much of their luster, but it was not all gone, and she honestly felt as if she herself had never shined more brightly as she did now. Perhaps that was where her entire plan had gone wrong – it never involved anyone’s feelings on the matter other than her own.

Turning her attentions to the others present, she lets her eyes linger on the young male for a while, remembering him from distant memories as a much smaller and darker child who had ghosted the tail of Deimos while the Reaper had still been the commander of their forces. It hadn’t ever really crossed her mind that he had left – she had never known him, and too many came and went for her to truly bother keeping track of more than those who were in front of her – but it was nice to know that there was home enough here in the mountains for the boy that he had come back from wherever he had been.

Those details did not matter, after all – he was here now, and Illynx enjoys thriving in the present rather than dwelling on the obscure details of the past. Would he answer them honestly, anyway? For what reason would he owe any of them the truth?

"I am Illynx, Lady of the Lazy Bores," she smiles graciously, her sharp words intended more for the impulsive, easily disgruntled Engineer who liked to rip apart the structure of things and leave it in pieces for someone else to clean up (the Lord Deimos disaster, anyone?), "I welcome you to our flop house."