Everything sort of just... fades away when Knox turns upon her. Almost immediately, Imonada is entranced, even as one last worried look is shot to Milo before the stallion commandeers her attention as easily and quickly as a spider ensnaring prey. "Uh." She is momentarily stunned, thoughts scattered, only to slowly compile them back together with one objective; to soothe the command in his tone. Name? What the hell was her name again? "Imonada," she hears herself say distantly, obediently and without fuss, her voice like chiming sleigh-bells, loud and crystal-clear. The pond, chilly against the almost suffocating warmth of the summer atmosphere, laps gently at her breast where a thick pelt of richly glossy feathers swell slightly in an attempt to trap heat; under the stars, the mirror surface twinkles and shivers around her sleek form as clouds of mosquitoes and gnats dance along upon the surface in a wash of pale moonlight. A lone owl screams up in a nearby tree, but she barely hears it, caught and feeling uncomfortably exposed in his obvious scrutiny of her. 

She felt frozen to the spot, tethered by the power of his stare, challenged to stay but terrified of the consequence should she flee. Guilt floods her, weighing her down, at such a consideration; she was in his employ, he her superior. Even if she was intimidated, she felt the need to show him the respect he was due. "Imonada, sir," she corrects firmly, dipping her chin and arching her smooth neck down neatly for a miniature bow, the tips of her wavy mane joining the strands of her tail in the dark glassy water to splay out like inky tentacles. 

She takes this time to begin slipping out of the water as snake-like as she was weaving through the natural canals that cut ways to each body of water around the Falls, climbing to the dry surface he and his companion inhabited, now that his child was laid to rest elsewhere, but she dare not approach him too closely, keeping a good few meters between them. Despite being soaked, quietly dripping onto the bed of verdant grass beneath her with rivulets streaming down the curves of her muscles, she stands with alert regard. 

Imaginative and prone to daydreaming, she could easily --at least sometime in the future-- avidly following this stallion, the way his strong timbre took her in deft hand, risking life and limb to please him with what skills she could offer. She could be his weapon. This was where she belonged, her true calling, a servant of another more powerful will exploiting her, giving her worth through ministration, application, and guidance.  

Shit.