Tangere, mentally reiterates the golden bitch, liking the procession of syllables that have fallen from the grey woman’s lips. Her smile is broadened at the mention of old acquaintances and the repetition of the name of her kingdom, that d’Artagnan, while he had not succeeded, had been memorable enough to leave both his calling and that of his home implanted in the mare’s head. It would make her job here much easier, she mused, her thoughts mirrored as the no-nonsense Tangere immediately closes what could have been a long and drawn out conversation.

At this point, Illynx is positively beaming, nodding a quick agreement before her sugar lacquered words are relinquished once more. "I like your style, miss Tangere," she says in compliment, a rare occurrence to pass between herself and a near stranger. But it is true – while she had been robbed of a chance to elaborate on the splendor of the mountain, she had also been granted a quicker escape from this place so overrun by lesser beings, such as the chestnut paint.

She follows the grey mare’s gaze to that of the other welcoming party, her smugness at being the victor in this gathering hidden behind a veneer of kindness. That her newest member apologizes to the filly draws mild interest to the Lady, who files away the reaction and Tangere’s name under a list of those who will not be brought into the dark inner circle of the Basin, at least not immediately.

Time would reveal much more of this one. Perhaps she could be converted, taught to see the just path that all unicorns should follow. Perhaps, she would simply be another Lena. A talent used to pave their way into greatness, a gleaming gemstone set in a crown of bones and blood.

Illynx, too, feels the presence of something other worldly in the air – but so used to magical company that is hard to explain, she writes off the sensation as that of Helovia itself, perhaps that one of those she stands with is emitting the strange aura. It is not uncommon – Lord Deimos sends off vibes of darkness and malcontent, as Psyche radiated with her pride at one point.

Perhaps it is simply that the girl, while young in the flesh, exuded a sensation of wisdom that was not normal among children of her age. Her intelligence is revealed in her words, which the brindled Lady listens to with interest not commonly discovered while in the company of the hornless.

The girl knows of her and her people; she is not afraid, nor does she rebuke her. Instead, and with a genuine smile that Illynx cannot deny, she shares her admiration of the wicked unicorns and their hidden haven. Illynx’s smile falters only slightly in light of these revelations, brought back to life by the compliments given to her appearance.

What a clever little rodent, she thinks to herself, making sure to remember her name and portrait for later use.

As the Abishia’s words close, the queen of the damned nods her head cordially, quite flattered and enthralled by the painted filly despite her wrongness. She plays with the thought of extending an offer to follow them home, but quickly rebukes it; the others would surely raise hell over the dark hearted wench bringing home an equine filly for a reason other than torture. Still, her curiosities have been roused – perhaps dangerous, but also not without its benefits.

She reaches about to her lengthy tail, grasping a long strand between her teeth and pinching down tightly to break it lose with a rough tug of her mouth. Raising a scarred knee to press the strands against its flat top, the point of the hoof pressed into the earth for stability, she quickly loops several strands about the top of the hair, grouping them together. She discards the finished bundle at the painted equine’s hooves, looking her level in the eyes with a seriousness belied by the faint glimmer of a grin on her lips. "Take this, Abishia," she says, nodding down at the enormously long black strands heaped together on the leaf strewn earth, "bring it with you to the mountain, and wait at the gates. Present this to any who seek to expel you and tell them it is a boon from myself, so that you may see the vale you so admire."

She smiles, genuinely, in the filly’s direction. "Knowing of us as you claim, surely you know the rarity of this gift. I look forward to your visit."

She turns about slowly in the direction of the mountains, eyes lingering on Tangere to hint that she should follow. "Let us go, it’s a good walk to the Basin," she says cheerfully, dark strands of her mane drifting in the motion of her turning head, "the others will be thrilled to meet you, I am sure."

And with that, she carries forward, all the while chatting and pointing out various landmarks and potential hazards.

There was a river once,
with many round stones
enchanted by shallow hopes
of embracing the ocean;
water is peculiar this way,
how its life is a line
that cannot bend or change
without the approval of its bed.