As the mammoth of a creature introduced himself to her son, the child beamed happily in return and his tail swished the air behind him in pleasure. In all the ways he looked like his sire, he certainly had none of his aloof nature; Rikyn enjoyed meeting other unicorns and even their stunted cousins, and it was a truth that she held with some reservation. That he was eager to make friends and seemingly good at it (if the collection of foals he was surrounded with when not at her side was any indication) was both a good and bad thing – mostly bad because he had no reservations towards the other species as he should. For all her preaching on the matter, it seemed to go in one ear and out the other.

She should have killed the filly in the meadow, she thinks with a sigh as she watches her boy take notice of the furry cat who had bounded in among them with surprise on her face for having found her bonded among company. The Lady smiles softly, knowing that this means Beowulf is usually alone. Rikyn takes no notice whatsoever, his eyes wide and full of childlike wonder as he beholds the lynx.

"What kinda cat is that?!" he asks, his excitement raising his pitch so that he is gleefully shouting his words with little notice to their volume, "her ears are adorable! Kyst has boring, regular ears."

The griffon hears him, her feathers ruffling up in offense at being called both boring and regular when she was neither of these things in comparison to the naturally born lynx; her lineage was that of magic, and she’d surely like to see the kitty cat’s attempt at flight.

The bonded’s disdain is only noticed by Illynx, and perhaps Beowulf, and the Lady cannot refrain from a slight giggle breaking her silence as she feels Kyst spread her wings and arch her body gracefully atop her back as if to prove her point (unwittingly catching the cat’s attention in the process).

Beowulf turns to the Lady and answers her, looking over the felled trees and explaining that he’ll need something to help him pull them along. Her brow furrows as she wonders how to accomplish that – and inside, she seethes for having not thought ahead that far. Maybe the Weaver’s have enough cloth stored somewhere to suffice…

The crack of lightning that strikes through the clearing is the deeper, more primal roar from which her power had been born, heat turning air and the microscopic particles within into a molten bolt that shook the atmosphere around them with an audible sound and left her blinking and partially blinded. As a child, thunder had terrified her – now it was merely a ghost of something beautiful and dangerous, the sound made by thing to truly be feared.

Turning away from the felled smaller trees to look at the source of the sound once she can manage sight again, her eyes find her God among them, the gold irises lighting up as the usual wash of his power settles out around him. The Gods, however regular they were in appearance (despite their tribred heritage), made up for it all in their sheer presence. She could almost get drunk on the power permeating the air around him as he uses his infinite power to bind the trees together in a row with ample straps for tugging them to where they’d need to be.

When his eyes find them, she feels her chest tighten, ears raising to catch his words with a curious expression on her mask. Instructions, perhaps? So he had looked out from his tall windows and seen their efforts to hold a festival in his honor and the honor of all the unicorns he kept watch over, she manages to think before he is gone as soon as he had come.

Her son is standing with his mouth still open when she turns to look at Beowulf and the boy.

"Well, you heard the man," she said with a gentle smile on her lips and a soft laugh trailing from her in the awed aftermath of the God’s sudden appearance and vanishing, "let’s assure there is not a single fault in the symmetry, my darlings!"

And with that and a still ringing sound of her laughter, she brushes past them and out to the vines, willing to do her part in getting the surely heavy load to where it is meant to be, her son slowly ambling over to grasp some of the tugging vines as well.