I'll dance in the light of a freezing sun</style>

and sing you the tales of the burning sea</style>

The angel floats through her new home in a soft-serve symphony of silver bells and azure key. Dismal, she finds it, but charming in a way; mashed cacophony of mountain and green, the silenced vale is a means to an end. It is washed in white and clouded color, curtains of light that pierce the sky; in the clear mountain evenings she has stared to the sky, and found it pleasant, if not ideal. The crash of the sky cannot contend with the sea, the waves of the stratosphere no match for white-capped fingers of beckoning brine.

But our angel floats through the snow serene, no image of discontent on the lines of her brow, no whisper of harsh misery in the blue of her eyes. A picture of perfection and innocuous charm, with the bite of intelligence in the ring of her laugh; Zuriel has a purpose which leads her on this day, a rumor she follows on cloven hooves of silver steel. Illynx, the rumor spews an infamous name, Lady of the Basin, Queen of the Hill. She has heard it murmured, muttered, cursed; from the little she knows she knows that Illnyx is a force to contend with, with little love lost between the unknown mare and our angel's kin. The white wraith smiles in the shade of sterile stone: a challenge is enjoyable, welcomed, rejoiced.

In the light of the moon the angel dances, an opalescent form in the full glow of fall. The silver orb is full and bright; it illuminates her world to fantastic effect, the damp of the night frozen in crystalline baubles around pale legs. She has settled in tundra at the edge of the lake, breathing in sulfur and mineral and warmth; "Cinnoru," she breathes out, "Give me strength on this night." The prayer is accompanied by a flickering smile; softened, strengthened, the mare's heart is frozen but her eyes glow with warmth.

She lifts her head to the cold night sky, crowned horns glittering, tail draped elegant on the smooth, stony earth. "Lady Illynx," she calls, and somehow she knows that the Lady will hear. "I beg of you audience!" She announces no more, for guard must be held; she knows little of this Lady, who knows less still of her; she will pass judgment first, and establish a method of interrogation from there.

@[Illynx]

I'll dance in the light of a freezing sun</style>

and sing you the tales of the burning sea</style>

She is not kept waiting for long- good, for while patience is a virtue our angel boasts, it is not a skill she enjoys exercising. Tact, seduction, deception, smiles: these are by far the girl's favored skills, the masks she wears with such serene perfection it is a challenge for even she to discern the reality underneath. Angel of Sin and Queen of the Damned, the Seraph is radiant even in this dim nighttime light, and the curl of her lips grows softer and warm as the dark form of Illynx flows into her view.

Beneath the lady's gold scrutiny our angel stands tall, a silver, sterner, stronger thing, she thinks with a smirk that never reaches her face. Patient, she waits as Illynx takes her time, wondering what the mare wants, what she sees, what she counts. A single stark scar on the seraph's pure hide, but few notice that in favor of her crown; fewer still know the two are a pair, that our actress has earned the title she wears through hardship and blood and the death of a king. She lets them keep ignorance unless necessity knocks; better to appear the dainty damsel and counted as less, than the threat and the mettle that flow through her veins.

Our actress blinks as the Lady speaks - at last, thinks the Seraph, and she tilts her head in a gesture few would recognize as a mocking bow, sapphire gaze never leaving her captive's face. Respect, admiration; those who know Zuriel know she feels it naught, that her only allegiance is to Cinnrou's blood - but this mare does not know Zuriel, and perhaps never will. Carefully she takes in Illynx's short words, the question just bordering a tone of demand, forward, no-nonsense, belying the garishly elaborate appearance this gilded bitch adorns. With the rise of her head comes the chime of her tones, enchanting and bell-like, well-trained and pure. "My Lady," she offers, a test of the water, "I am newly-made a Phantom of the Basin. I hoped to learn more of our herd's standing from you, that I might better make myself valuable." Not that I really need your help for that - but the girl does not add her final thought. What she really wants to know is the dynamic of the herd, who holds power and who does not; for despite the obvious fact that this creature was far inferior to her Reaper King, Zuriel knows Deimos will not be forthcoming with information, or conversation. Her brother no doubt holds the same opinion she does, that most others are either useless or useful only to an extent, and while she supports that view, it will not help her now. Still, better to dance around the point, to ask how the Basin fares in the world before diving into the intricacies of the herdland itself.

She continues to smile in the light of the moon, a soft, inoffensive thing; but intelligence flashes behind starlit eyes, and her body shifts from its heightened stance into one of less regalia and more confidence. She now knows Illynx to be somewhat no-nonsense, and it is such a guise she moves to don, slowly and carefully, with the practice of a maiden from the silver screen.

[ no need to tag :3 ]

I'll dance in the light of a freezing sun</style>

and sing you the tales of the burning sea</style>

The pleasant smile does not fade in the wake of Illynx's own, but our Angel takes it into consideration, storing it away with the little she knows of this queen and adding to the characterization her shrewd mind is trained to build. If the gilded mare is frustrated she plays a skillful game, hiding behind a world of chill and sweetened smiles. Zuriel listens as the queen questions, and speaks. Standing? she asks, following the girl's expectations, but gives the Seraph no time to clarify what she means.

Illynx chooses to speak of without the herd, her smile now dark as she drawls of missed connections and strained ties. "Of course." she replies, and now her smile shifts too, taking on an edge of I am not stupid. I know these simple things. It's a lie - how on earth would she know anything, having come to this land mere days before? - but a good one, opaque and well seamed, just as every lie the angel speaks. Illynx seems to think this is common knowledge, and Zuriel would never admit to knowing less than anyone else. On a whim, as an experiment, she adds to the confident, tinkling bells: "Shame, that they refuse to submit to those who are clearly superior." She means, of course, horned, and states the thought as though it were the most obvious thing in the world; she suspects the queen to feel supremacist sympathies, and hopefully she will take the bait, confirm that itch.

She goes on, holding out information like a bitch throwing scraps to dogs, the Seraph thinks. Foothills, allies... the absence of conversation is troubling, but she has to wonder- "Have we sent emissaries to reaffirm our ties?" Maybe it's obvious, but maybe it's not - she states it innocently enough, the faint hint of mockery softened by her eyes. If we have heard nothing, perhaps we should find out why? If Illynx has not thought that far, well... the Seraph's esteem was already low.

She considers giving a pseudonym, but laughs the idea away in her mind. "Zuriel," the angel smiles. The Seraphim, heir of Cinnoru and mother of Gods. But Illynx doesn't need to know that, does not need to know how vastly superior the little white angel is to her dark, false queen. She will find out soon enough.

And now it is Zuriel's time to speak, to further her agenda and knowledge and self. "Lady, I must ask- where are the other spies? I have met none yet, nor a figure to direct my questions toward, to report to for instructions. Deimos... Lord Deimos led me here, but he was hardly forthcoming with instruction as to my duties." And now we come to the heart of it all - what is your relationship with my brother? She states her plight with a hint of a laugh, pausing as she re-titles Deimos Lord, as though she forgets that her brother leads, too. Will Illynx defend him, or revel with the angel in her co-leader's shortcomings? Is there trouble in paradise, or is all smooth on the mountain throne?

"Head hunting?" Now, at last, she is taken by surprise, laughing shortly, eyes bright with disbelief. Was there something about her that screamed mercenary, some scar she has missed or a glint in her gaze? "It is not quite my forte," the Angel replies; but now she notes the hungry grin, the way that Illynx caresses the words, and her own eyebrow arches while her smile grows broad. "Though I have been told I am a fast learner, when the need arises." Head hunting. The idea is mildly repulsive, but she's ready to listen, to ingratiate herself with this gold-legged mare and become so important she shan't notice the knife at her back.

[ sorry for the wait <3 ]

I'll dance in the light of a freezing sun</style>

and sing you the tales of the burning sea</style>

Ah, and the angel thinks she has hit a nerve, watching with hidden delight as the brown bitches' smile falters just a hair's breath at the edge. What's this, darling; cat got your tongue? She waits for Illynx to compose her thoughts, waits to see what the response will be- clearly, she suspects, emissaries have not been sent, or perhaps their reception was less than warm; regardless the situation with the Foothills is bothering the golden queen, and that bother is something Zuriel can hold, morph to her fancy and use to her gain. She is not sure if she wants to hurt or help this gilded creature yet, if it shall be a slow slide into good graces or all out war; but the angel is patient. She can wait and see.

The arch of a brow, and the girl takes the venom in, the clear superiority that cuts through Illynx's words. Ah, but Zuriel can understand, does understand, for she shares the views of this other mare in that she knows her kind to be superior, the first. But the stringent view on when to bow is not so practical in daily life; to reach the heights some compromises must be made, such as the Seraph's own sweet smile at this clearly dimmer creature. Frank now, the angel responds in the second after silence falls, "A master does not fear to kneel, for she is confident in the certainty of her own superiority. One small act does not change that." The smile remains but her voice is metallic, a question in the air- are you confident, my dear?

She continues, softer now, her voice returned to its pleasant silver ring. "From what little I know - and correct me if I'm wrong - we are not loved. We have made enemies of the strongest herds, and if what you say is true, no efforts have been made to strengthen our alliances." She leaves a space for contradiction or consent, then breaks into the air again with the gentle lilting of a well-tuned bell. "Clearly, these others exist on a level far inferior to ours, but that does not mean they cannot be useful..." She lets her voice trail away, an unspoken shrug in the gossamer air. Blue eyes twinkle - use a chisel, not a hammer - and the mare smiles, innocent as always. She knows how to rule, but will not impose herself upon the other mare. That is not how the dance is done. Let Illynx take advice or not; Zuriel does not truly care.

Faelene. Arah. She takes the names and stores them away, making a note to seek these two out. "And in diplomacy?" the white girl asks, but at this point she doubts Illynx even knows what diplomacy is. Her brother's name is spoken with a sickly sweetness that reeks of affection and something near reverence, a strange departure from the mare's former tones. Zuriel's smile remains the same, but she wonders what emotions propel Illynx's words; the masking of hatred, an attempt to hide fear? She knows her Reaper and the Death he commands; surely affection is not the emotion inspired in this insipid bitch. She will have to ask him later. If Illynx is his secret admirer, well... some fun could be had there, perhaps.

Ah, and head hunting. The idea still does not appeal to Zuriel's well honed mind, and though the idea of making herself more valuable to Illynx is enticing, it doesn't draw her in enough to put real value in mercenary work. The Angel knows when to pick her battles, and our Seraph is more the messenger than harbringer of death- or whatever it is the gold bitch wants. Her shoulders roll elegantly at the bait Illynx sets out, blue eyes closing in a coy whatever floats your boat. She looks at the Lady and murmurs her response - "There is not much I can say without knowing specifics," she suggests. Or not. There are other fields the angel is more interested in.

"Illynx... I cannot help but think that some of our difficulties would be lifted if we employed someone to act as more of a... diplomatic liaison, with our allies." She chooses the words carefully, but her slight sarcasm is visible in the smile. No more Lady, but still more games- she wonders if the other will catch the tones beneath her words, the way she laughs around the word allies, divulging that she is aware of their shared secret, that they are superior. "Someone who they may trust... to present a new image, perhaps. Polish the blights that rest on our name. An infiltration, if we must use such words." Clearly shit has been wiped across their names. This approach of haughty superiority may be the marrow that flows through her bones, but the Seraph is not fool enough to think that they will go far in the world without someone along to ease the tensions, lubricate the machine. Without, for lack of a better example, her.