The nuances of conversation flutter past her, and lazily her ears followed them as if they were notes of sound carried on delicate, papery wings. It is all a part of decent conversation, this exchange of niceties, and while she is not entirely sure, she has a strong feeling that she does not enjoy them on a normal day either. It is a game to her, even now, the way the words bounce and bend as he tosses a kindly but mostly meaningless statement in reply to her thanks.

She nods, perhaps too late to be truly polite, but does not know what else to say; restored from what? she might ask, but the truth was surely horrid, and either way, he may mistake her question and answer again that she had been possessed by evil. I feel as if I have always been possessed by evil, she thinks, looking at him in the tender moments that stretch between the dead notes of their words, even before whatever darkness this is; it is no surprise that I had been consumed by it.

Why has he saved me, though, if I am damned? Has this water saved my soul?

She takes note of his wings, the way her mind recoils from them without any bidding, and knows precisely why he should hate her. She is starting to recall well enough of herself to know that the man before her, agreeing that he is Midas, should probably have killed her while he had the chance rather than saved her – at least for the sake of his people, his flying daughters.

Just the memory of the sound that those particular appendages made when breaking was enough to remind her that not all of the beast had been born with the disease she had contracted from the dead.

As he asks her for a title of her own, the question of why dies out in her mind.

I was not saved, at least not truly, she thinks, somewhat disheartened by the thought; she should have known better. Even in this state of hazy recollection she knows that it would never be so.

Still, the memory had ended much more pleasantly in this repetition, and it lingered in her. She hesitates for a moment before she answers, loathe to watch the ease and warmth slip from the man’s features if he is the sort to condemn her for her associates. As far as she knows, she’s personally brought no harm to any of the Throat.

"Illynx, of the Aurora Basin," she says with a smile, partially because she cannot remember at this moment precisely who she had heard the man’s name and description from, though mostly because she is already putting back on her long adorned mask, "I heard of you through some conversation or another… I can’t precisely recall which, at the moment."

Sending a ripple down her body, she shakes loose the remaining water with care not to splash Midas too terribly, desiring no sort of tussle in this encounter and not wanting to give any reason for there to be one. "Your armor makes you easy to pick out," she giggles with her head still lowered as the shake subsides and the pitter patter of Illynx made rain hushes into nothing.