It’s a game, a fun one at that; she gets to show off what she knows about the world she lives in even if her assumptions are wrong, the words she receives in reply from the white marked, golden stag a small dose of glee that trills through her vain heart. It keeps the conversation flowing and her own pieces at a vantage, for she knows things that he does not of this world and, because of this, is most obviously a good friend to have; that she can dangle her knowledge in front of him and receive interest is only part of the fanciful fun that is conversation with an intellectual equal, perhaps even a kindred spirit for all the dark plotting and ruses flickering in the minds of both unicorns.

She smiles, undaunted by her failed guess at who the king was that had lost his mind, her thoughts trailing, even as she replies to the stallion’s query, to the remaining two lands that had not been stricken from the record by her first glances into the matter. The Edge was least likely, for she had seen it recently herself and smelled the great number of bodies that resided within it, taking little faith in the notion that such a large herd would keep a man on the verge of losing it as their leader for long. Kahlua, however dumb she was, was very much alive and aware of the world around her, even if her view was narrow, and she had met the King himself, keener to the facets of the world in which he belonged than his pretty, hornless companion. Still, she knew nothing of the Throat; it had been many a season since they had waged war on the desert land and she had heard no news of the devilish place since.

Her giggle rings over all her thoughts before it follows her words, the tale of Alice one she knows as well, remembered from her days as a very young girl among the storytellers of the Edge. It was a good one, full of magic and adventure, but she had always thought that Alice was an absolute trollop – it seemed that at nearly every turn the girl had fumbled or failed in some way, making her a rather poor choice for a central character, in Illynx’s opinion.

"Surely you did not miss the path to the north of the Threshold?" she asks, "it’s a curious herd to be sure." Her smile gains an elusive edge to it, a pause finding her words before she continues. "The Asylum, Circuta called her friends when they were still vagabonds, and with good purpose. From what I have seen they are a collection of dark hearted misfits and broken things, all thrown in with what was left of the Merciful’s herd after the darkness lifted," her smile is humored as she thinks of the meeting she had had on the outskirts not so long ago, the earlier ones in which a witch named Circuta had come and proclaimed friendship – friendship that, when it had been brought to the newly formed alliance of Midas, the Foothills, and the Asylum, had been revoked, "no friends of ours, as you heard at the meeting. Perhaps in time, perhaps not…"

The conversation diverges towards the true identity of the lost king, her eyes soaking in his delightful, fox-like smile and hearing his words with ears raised and pleasure rippling through the golden pools of her eyes. The Throat, then, she thinks, her own lips curving wickedly in her glee. "He was a General beneath Kri," she spits the name of the old desert queen with all the reverence that one gives a pile of burning shit on their doorstep, "any who wear tips on their horns know of her barbaric council, even if they have not seen their faces." Her disgust with the mentioning of such names fades into a ponderous expression, one that sends her voice breaching back into the interesting notion that one of her herds most loathed of enemies was weakened. "How deep is the affliction?" she asks, her voice piqued with interest for she herself has experienced a period of amnesia in her lifetime, a dark, black period in which she had belonged to the plague that had stolen the souls of much of the kingdom for a time, the plague that Midas had spared her from. It did not spare him any of her verbal or emotional reproach of him, only made hesitant her desire to lash out at him for refusing a proposed friendship because she owed him as much, even if she would not openly admit it was so.

The snort of laughter that rises from the next turn in conversation draws her ears back atop her sculpted head, her smile faltering in momentary confusion as to why the golden stallion now seems to mock her; thankfully, he answers her silent inquiry quickly with his own words, which flow forth like a river that she takes in quietly, her smile growing with each passing word until she is almost giggling in the hilarity of his assumption that she had been attempting to truly disguise her ruse as something other than what it was.

Surely, she didn’t ever openly discuss her detailed plans, but she surely alluded to them when she was testing her company or felt at peace with their ability to be discreet; while she didn’t know Thranduil well enough to trust him, he was to become a part of their herd, a truth that led to many other truths that would require lessons shared slowly through deliberate trickles in conversation. He had heard the stories from lips outside their walls, lips that condemned them from hearts that were filled with fear, so much admitted by the stallion himself; it was as she wanted it, truly, for the mythos of their terrible strength to become ingrained in the historical rhetoric of the land, but for their new face to be smiling and tender and sweet, one that drew hesitance from their foes and reverence from their friends. Her plan, in ways, was to warp the Aurora Basin into a grand scale version of herself, a black hearted pit lacquered in sheathes of gleaming, burnished gold, a dancing dagger that left others in trepidation that it would fall and slice open their flesh if they dared come to close or play too long in the glint of their blades.

Let him take her for a fool, if that is what the man wanted to see her as. It defeated her spirit and diminished her strength none the less, leaving him in a state of weakened assumption that he held the upper hand in this world he was so new to, so eager to become involved in. Even as he insults her he sweeps his arrogance beneath a silken shawl of false humility, wears it as if he is the king of liars and not a soul can see through its embroidered covering, and she plays along with him even as her smile loiters on her lips, playful and sly.

"Scars never go away, Thranduil, or they’d only be called bruises. Nothing is secret that all the world can see," is all she says in reply, searching his face with her brightly shining golden eyes, several peals of silvery laughter falling from her lips, having decided to continue on with her guise as if he hadn’t just spent so many words debunking her (how was that for being an idiot, hmm?). She shakes her head as if to rid the sound from her mind and returns to look at him, answering his inquiry as to how he might be of use to her. "There is a lack of information finding its way to my ears, for a lack of willing and capable minds to do so," she says, a slight slowness to her voice as if she is partially stuck within her thoughts, "as you evidently have a natural talent for the art, I am sure you will rise quickly among Roland’s Phantoms."