She listens to the hiss of the bird woman and starts ever so slightly, understanding entirely why it is she was so aggravated as the smooth surface of the egg takes its freedom and rolls back down into the nest. The Lady’s ears splay atop her head and she smiles in apology, the lilt of her voice explaining most immediately that she was not a professional keeper of eggs and gratitude finding purchase in her features as the Harpy gathers the orb in her large, gleaming talons and takes to the skies along side her.

Together, the Lady walks through the woods with the creature, listening to her odd way of speaking and hearing, rather than a tale of greatness and magical prowess as she had assumed to find, a story that is quite sad. She had not known much of the species of the Harpy until this moment, and is surprised to hear that they mate for life; it is even more shocking that this splendid bird is alone because of the eternal absence of the one she had chosen. ”It is good that you have found solace,” she comments. The golden gaze of the woman slides over the creature with sadness in their depths, but she finds little of this emotion in the features of the Harpy. Perhaps it has been long enough that the pain of the loss no longer scalds, or she found such peace in protecting eggs she discovered in need of her that the loss of her mate didn’t fill her with despair.

Illynx does not know, nor does she assume to.

It doesn’t take them long to reach her cave, the emerald covering of her moss drapery a mark she comes to and pauses, continuing to take in the words of the bird woman and drawing to halt just outside its comforts. The Harpy might fit into the stone room if she kept her wings tight to her, but if she is at all like the wild birds of the mountain, she will not enter. Caves are for bats and unicorns, as far as Illynx can tell.

Despite her wonder as to whether or not the Harpy will enter, it seems she does, but only just enough to deposit the egg in a nook in the stone where Illynx quickly lowers herself to wrap limb and still round belly around the surface of the cream object, keeping it warm as the Harpy had insisted upon and listen to her words with raptness.

Meat?

The bird is flying out and onto a stone outcropping that looks into the mouth of the cave, the moss fluttering from her exit and leaving a clear viewpoint into the mare and egg, Illynx’s ears back on her head in utter dismay at having to touch dead, bloody flesh but deciding that it is worth it if it means she will be granted a companion for the task. ”Soon?” she asks with a smile on her lips, looking down at the object with wonder as to how soon soon is.

It answers her, a tiny quaking rising through it, drawing her eyes broad and leaving her with an anxious feeling in her stomach, muzzle reaching out to stroke the egg as it wobbles on the stone and against the rounded support of her belly. After what feels like eternity, a small fleck of the shell breaks away, revealing an orange tipped beak that quickly works away at its confines, the woman’s heart racing all the more swiftly with each passing moment.

Slowly, it cracks, the hatchling working its way out. Every now and again she pulls away a large shard that seems to dampen the hatchling’s progress, finding with great delight that the wet pelt of the animal is golden and black, dappled and creamy. Every passing moment she feels a swell rise and fall within herself, touching her muzzle to the babe lovingly as it is born into the world.

When it finally tumbles loose and meets its pale, pale blue eyes to her golden ones, a wave of emotion so deep and perforating runs through her that she wonders how she could love Rikyn at all. A tiny peep rises from the chest of the kitten’s face, its flightless wings folded tight against its small frame, and through the slight bond already held between the two of them, she feels the babe’s desperate need for food wrack through her. Desperation fills her bones as she nickers sweetly down at the hatchling, rising to her legs and moving towards the corner of her cave where, sometimes, she finds the occasional roosting bat.

Fortune finds her; there are several of the large beasts, so used to her arrivals and disappearances from the cave that they don’t expect the bolt of lightning that strikes them dead – didn’t even manage to crack a single eye open. Their bodies hit the stone floor with a sickening crack that makes the woman grunt in disgust, her skin literally crawling as she lifts the frame of the largest bat in her teeth and moves it closer to the hatchling.

Dropping it before the griffon, a smile rises to her lips as her tiny beak savagely tears at it, blood running across the stone and down the dangerous curve of her beak.

”Is it good, my little Kyst?” she asks, not really sure where the name has come from but finding that the griffon clicks her beak in the most pleased of ways before diving back into the flesh presented to her. Rising her eyes to search for the Harpy outside her door frame, the Lady lets her voice sound out should she find that figure still lingering on the outcropping or not - ”May the Gods bless you for this, Mistress,” she calls out, returning her attentions to the babe.