Carefully snipped away from the mother fabric of the shadowverse, quite neatly right along the dotted line silhouetting her premortal design concept polished and compact, Imonada phases in and out of the darkness with the same reliability promised to one chasing love. Slithering and inky, a black moccasin leisurely drifting through the interlinking canals tucked away beneath the exaggerated overhang of birch, she moves with quiet patience fueled by tempered determination; liberally spiced with the essential ingredient, of course, that crow curiosity of hers that has led her astray on many a occasion. The moon is strange here as it sheds feeble lambent, its gentle face pinched and shrunken, a faded portrait hung drearily within the nightscape, still surrounded by her adoring stars. A child's unheeded, desperate calls for its parent had slipped through the light doze she was enjoying; the tone was distressed and frustrated, not hysterical, so she took her time mulling over the potential scenario as she moved to arrive at the source.

Cool, refreshing water swirls lazily around her legs as she slips into the pond the trio's waterfall gorges itself upon. The first one she notices is the lofty steed; his discombobulated, zombie movements and unseeing gaze betraying malady, but in this shroud of late evening he too buoys between anonymity and exposure. Uncertain as how to process it, much less address him, her gaze flicks off him as if spurned away, landing on the sleek black dog and... a foal.

Her breath catches in her throat, memories pounding at the gates, demanding retribution. She'd not seen a child since her clan had lost their crop. For a heartrending, fleeting moment Milo's face is Imanie's precious visage; small, afraid, unhappy. But she blinks, and that lost piece of her soul returns to its true place; beneath the heather, the soil, a lifetime from here, what once was a vibrant and brilliant --living-- creature now a tiny skeleton curled up tight, never to leave the dream that ferried her to the other side, her only company the other lost children and the worms that stripped their flesh for their ritual inauguration of returning to the greater cycle. Although she harbors a fervent wish --her anxiousness manifesting itself in a shift of weight from one hoof to another-- to address the young foal and the stallion's companion, who herself looked more approachable at this point than even her own master, she was bound by codified honor to acknowledge him prior to the others. Even if that acknowledgement ends up dispersing like smoke. 

She dances, fights, with her uncertainty; two actors unable to possess this stage, one threatening to steal the show from the other. A strong, clean, able voice somehow crawls its way out of the internal conflict as she hails Knox with a pastor's confidence; everwhile, watching him warily and sending errant gazes to Manhattan and Milo, concern gouging into her normally serene features for all of them.