Thunder grumbles in the distance like a sickly king on his deathbed and the mists of this place break open, summoning a sudden drizzle light and refreshing like angel kisses caressing her face -- or mother's cool lips as they brush across her feverish forehead, the tips of her long beautiful hair tickling her neck as she moves to engulf her child, but the anticipation for the coming warmth is left stranded, mired in hope that quickly becomes polluted and curdled, as Imonada's mediation slips away like smoke from grasping fingers and with it the memories. Frustration takes their place. She is a prodigy, a phenomenon, both gifted and cursed with a preciously speculator mind capable of feats of recollection, yet pain was the keyholder, the guard, the shell around the most invaluable knowledge about herself. Where she could remember the name, face, and favorite drink of an inconsequential dignitary that once visited her father, entire months were secreted away and one gentle nudge to access them brought about a certain terror not unlike one from watching yourself bleed out. It was practically the same, wasn't it?

A seedling of anxiety begins to bloom in her throat, threatening to spread to and constrict her lungs before coiling in her gut like a festering serpent, but something interesting is about to happen and it distracts her; the ground beneath her vibrating with self-assured steps, coming closer and closer. Eyes still closed, she plays a game. Male or female? The scent wafting from the source is most deliciously masculine, warm like honeyed whiskey tossed back against a cold evening. How big? Larger than her, but that information was paltry as many could claim such. Perhaps fifteen hands or so, then. Fit. Confident. Already, she is compiling his dossier...

But he does something unexpected; he invades her personal space with an unceremonious plop down next to her. Instinctively she folds her wings, rasping them through the grass, to fold neatly at her sides -- although the misshapen one still beetles at the base with a tilted slant. She opens her eyes then, greeting his own beautiful ocher with her shiny obsidian. No reply is given to him yet, as she soaks his image into her mind, raking his fine form through firing synapses. A swarthy amber rich with dulcet tones and a decadent splash of a creamy latte over a sturdy frame of thick muscles, his palette spiced perfectly to his pleasant musk. The perusal he gets is cut off when he moves to readjust the flower threaded through his mane, and she is drawn back to his face and my what a face it is, a destiny of ruin, the kind of face that could damn the most innocent of souls. She would be wise to be careful with this one, taking into account his suave mannerisms.

"They had a monogamous relationship. At least according to her. He does not agree."

She drops her gaze demurely, thoughtfully, before peering back up at him through a sweep of dark lashes. "At some point, the arguing becomes pointless, doesn't it? No amount of fighting will change the past. I am Imonada. You did not disturb me, Rowtag. But you're here for a different reason, aren't you?"