”Ciceron!” comes an enthusiastic, female voice as her figure slips into the clearing which houses the two figures she has both spied and gained an interest in approaching; while she is usually housed in the stone confines of her home, locked high in her figurative towers, she does occasionally leave her son and herd behind to venture to the Threshold in search of desirables. That she has happened upon someone that she considers to be a friend in her slanted, abusive way of labeling such poor, hapless creatures, draws an additional edge of niceties and glitter to her smile and eyes, the metal plates along her spine flashing in the faint light that reaches through the Tallsun foliage above.

His tiger companion is there, to which Kyst raises her little griffon head with interest and watches distrustfully the beast that, inwardly, she knows to be vicious and strong. The vibe resonating from her bonded mare, however, eases her worries – Illynx rarely exhibits such forward trust outside of the Basin or among her peers, and it settles easily with the griffon that she is safe, no matter how fearsome the man’s bonded may be.

She stops at a respectable distance, joining the miniature circle that forms between the stranger (the prize, of course!) and her pseudo-friend Ciceron. ”We seem to find each other often, do we not?” a light laughter trickles from her sugary lips, her overgrown tail swishing without much luster behind her to ward off the flies and insects that come to pinch at her skin.

Maybe this is why she never left the Basin.

Turning her gaze to look over the golden woman who it seems both she and the floral knight have come to court, she maintains her sparkling face of friendliness and congeniality, running her eyes most briefly over the young woman before she introduces herself. She was short, but well built; muscular like Beowulf, but much smaller in height. It’s a good mix for a girl, she thinks, the almost masculine way she’s structured giving her a unique appearance and one that Illynx finds suitable, even in comparison to the fine lines and well honed sinew that comprised her body. Not all were warriors – she must admit as much with a sorrowful sigh that echoes about in the silence of her mind, held taught by the rigid framework of her flattering and false smiles.

”I am the Lady Illynx, of the Aurora Basin to the North,” she explains, her words deft and well known to her, used more often than she’d like; while some chose to remain behind guises and keep their name from the tongues of those they met, the wicked woman found no honor in hiding from the threats she offered or the loathing she might inspire in them should they already know of her, or her home, ”and this is the mistress Kyst, my most faithful friend.”