From her perch upon the mountainside, Imogen watches the dark beast move below her—directing the crowd of scouts, spies, and pilfers in their herd towards the forefront of the Basin. The woman purses her smoky lips before she follows, unfurling her great wings from her sides and leaping off of the narrow ledge on which she had hovered, a scattering of stones dribbling down the rocky gradient in her wake. Riding the highland air currents, she glides above them, a swan and angel above the devil’s horns which sprout grotesquely from their brows.

Soon her beady eyes catch their destination—a tent just ahead, a color of blue and artistically decorated, that stands out conspicuously against the dark greens and browns of the forest, despite its apparent nature for deceit and secrecy. Allowing herself a final snarl towards the sky above, the winged woman prays for strength before the length of her wings fold, guiding her in a swift dive towards the ground below. With movements that have long-since been practiced and honed to a perfect dance, Imogen suddenly unfolds her dark wings just in time to alight in front of Rikyn, her golden hooves touching the cold earth with a dainty grace that belies the adrenaline coursing deliciously through her veins.

Being the last one to enter, aside from her fellow Thief, the pegasus offers the stallion a coy smile. “Such a gentleman,” she purrs as she walks past him and through the flap he holds open, her slender hips swaying coquettishly beneath the gossamer drape of gold. Settling in the center, like a queen among her subjects, Imogen holds herself proudly. Still, she allows Rikyn his stage, watching him like a cat in the shadows, figuring him out. (What face will she put on for him, and the others, today?)

With one dark-rimmed ear trained on the unicorn while he speaks, her piercing eyes roam slowly over those who have followed them. Wordlessly she studies their faces, trying to glean what little details she can from their postures, while keeping a carefully-constructed expression of bold neutrality for herself. They need not know how their horns make her stomach churn and her throat burn with venom—they need not know the huntress among them, not yet. Patience, she croons to herself, while her eyes flicker towards Rikyn when he addresses her.

Sighing a measured breath through her nostrils, Imogen regards them all with an expression that hangs between scrutiny, astuteness, and detachment. “Only that you can be sure I will be watching you—all of you,” she proclaims simply, seeing little need to add much more to Rikyn’s speech for now, more content on dissecting each of them (and her eyes pierce them, every single one, as though she is speaking to them directly). “I’m eager to learn what faculties have shaped the northern people,” a smile curls her lips, and while there is no need to think it is anything but encouraging, perhaps there is something about it—the keenness of her eyes, the way her teeth are bared just a little too much—that might put them on edge.

“Speech.”

imogen

Nothing but lies and crooked wings

open your wings, evil angel