Through the passes, into the eternal snow that slumbers and waits for the heavens to spill forth in the seasons to come; for now, it lingers beneath the glinting sun, blinding in and off itself as she jauntily trots along, not swiftly progressing through her beloved snowy halls but not strolling, either. Her boy follows in tow, learning the paths quickly and able to keep up with her most of the time, closing the distance that sometimes grows between them with spurts of clumsy galloping that sends splashes of snow up against his own and his mother’s pelts.

She hoards him to herself, her treasure; the others are not worthy of him and cannot be trusted with the preciousness of his safe keeping, and so with her always he was. Darling Rikyn, her shadow babe, handsome and vibrant the pair as they travel through the mountains and out towards the northern reaches of the peninsula that were endlessly captured in the pristine arms of winter.

”What do you think of the Frostbreath Steppe, Rikyn?” she asks now that they are looking out at all of them, peaks on top of peaks on top of peaks rising into the horizon. She had been quite stunned the first time she’d seen them, but her son reacts to everything with broad eyes and wonder and so its no wonder he does the same now. Ever since he’s figured out that he has to watch where he’s walking, he’s become much more graceful and capable of studying the world around them while they walked, only trailing behind his mother when the footing forced him to slow or fall.

He takes a slow breath in, generally quiet from her experience as he forms his reply. ”Looks a lot like home with more snow,” he says quite dryly, and she laughs, aggravated but amused with his lack of wonder when facing such an imposing subject as the Steppe. It is possible he misunderstood her question, of course, and so she presses it no further for the time and returns to pointing out various turns of events she has had here in these mountains.

Before too long, they are in the valley where she and so many others had felled the Lightning Dragon, which she reiterates with much vibrancy and flair for his sake; she even acts out certain parts for him, like when Ruka had struck his killing blow or how she and Imogen had turned a raptor into a gutted crisp in order to save Arah. It’s quite the tale and takes a good amount of time and focus, so much so that she’s still in mid-combat with the invisible dragon as the hero of the day Ruka brings home the final slice when she hears a familiar voice in the distance.

”And then he swept under his throat, angling his barbed horn up, slici…oomph.”

Her upwards leap loses all of its playful articulation and becomes instead a sudden drop to the earth, leaving her with hooves splayed and eyes staring in the direction of the Doctor and the mare she’d met a few weeks prior at the entrance to the Basin.

Rikyn laughs; it’s not often his mother is caught off guard, especially while telling elaborate stories to her children.

Clearing her throat and hoping her… display of affection for her son had been missed, she strolls towards the two with her regal crown held as if she was not just frolicking on a mountain path like a filly on a sugar rush.

”d’Artagnian, Sialia! Out working patrols in the mountain?” she asks with chipper tone, Rikyn still snickering quietly behind her as he slides in to her right side and halts in the same step as she does. He does, at least, divert his face from the other two while sneering so as not to offend them with thoughts that he is laughing at them, but it still earns him a sour look from Illynx and a quick side kick to redirect his attention towards his elders.

”’Lo,” he offers dejectedly, bowing his head ever so slightly in just enough time avoid another tap of his mother’s hoof against his shin.

Doesn’t she know that shit hurts?

Rikyn looks to the Doctor’s reaction to their arrival with one of supreme wonder as to why it is he always looks like mother makes his mouth taste bad anytime they approach. Part of him is afraid that it is him who draws the disgust to the face of the tall bay but he is a smart colt and has seen this reaction in too many near momma to worry for too long that he’s the reason the stallion looks that way. He himself has experienced some of that reputation of hers which has soured many she knows towards who she is personally, even if they accept her rule and delegation, and part of him wonders how long that will last when half your populace is content to kiss your ass and the other wonders why it is you have the job instead of them.

He can’t really focus too long on d’Artagnan or the other mare though, because as usual his mother is the center of the spotlight and she swiftly takes her place on stage, the words playing between all three adults while her child watches on with a bored expression wishing he was home playing with Aithniel rather than listening to adults talk about nothing. His dam, however, listens with riveted interest to each as they speak and glistens and gleams in the sun while her son molds into the background, a wallflower poised to hear the words of the grown ups but never truly to be noticed.

”So terribly sorry,” she retorts, rolling her eyes at the so easily disgruntled Doctor with a delicate giggle chiming from her curved lips, ”I wasn’t aware you hid your name from herd mates. I apologize for telling her what she would have learned eventually anyway, you grumpy bastard.”

It takes all Rikyn has not to chuckle at the rude name she’s called the man right in front of him without a lash batted. From his observations of other mares with their children, his mother is quite… lose mouthed with her word selection around him. In ways it makes him wonder if she has any idea what she’s doing raising him and in others it makes him feel respected, equal. She lets him in on all her secrets and the truth of the world, and for that he is grateful.

He is also very glad to have such a repertoire of vicious names at his disposal, so kindly lent to him from her lips.

The boy looks to d’Artagnan’s dog as he speaks of him, golden eyes flashing curiously across the strange animal while his mother listens to both explain that one is being useful and the other is, as usual, a balloon of hot air. Her smile falters only slightly in that she was wrong, but it is no matter really once she thinks about it; she hadn’t been doing anything particularly useful, either, except perhaps teaching Rikyn more about the world in which he had been born. A nod follows each explanation, her mind trailing elsewhere as the words come to a close and the Doctor’s reach for his satchel puts a new idea within her brain.

”Have you given any thought as to a profession, Sialia?” she asks, looking over to the dark toned woman and drawing her son’s attention to her words (as he was highly curious what all life could present to him and had yet to hear a detailed explanation of the jobs he might aspire to hold aside from leadership), ”d’Art here is quite the herbalist, however sour his disposition, as are a select others in the herd. I imagine you grew whatever you just ingested yourself, hm?” A glance is given to the Doctor, her smile one that shows she respects his skills and will honor him for his capabilities no matter how hard he seems to prod at her wrath. ”There are more opportunities aside from plants, however; Torleik eagerly accepts more soldiers to train and the Weavers may have a project or two that need extra hooves.” She pauses, thinking that the mare had been off to the Threshold and surely, then, enjoyed conversing with others. It was possible she was good at it, in which case there were many places for her to submit her talents. ”There are of course the shadow walkers, our secret keepers, and those who seek to learn of the Gods and the land. We have a deep need for builders and information gatherers, if you hold any interest or skills in those areas, or healing, such as d’Artagnan…” her smile is curved, revealing an inside joke between herself and the Doctor though a sly glance in his direction, ”and there is always the soldier’s path, a proud one for any.”

Big mouth indeed.

Big mouth?

She feels her lips rise into a sneer at such honorable mention.

Her son is not the only one amused with the flame laced words being tossed ever so nonchalantly between the two unicorns, the woman entirely amused with the game and d’Artagnan pretending, as usual, that he was not having just as much fun as she was. It was no matter to her, anyway – one of them had to be genuinely mad or it would lose its luster and the game would no longer be enjoyable.

Slyly, she winks to him. ”Observant as usual, dearest Doctor.”

And then the bickering seems to be over for the time being, which she is sorrowful for but is well hidden behind the enthusiasm with which she speaks of her herd. The change that comes over her long term companion in the macabre arts is evident in the humorous chortles that occasionally rise at her witty and hidden descriptions of his talents and, most obviously, when his words rush out of his mouth like an unbidden river of cheerful malice.

It was an odd, odd way to be, she decides most immediately, her son looking to the bloody bay with eyes wide with wonder at the sudden change in the man’s demeanor towards the entire situation, too young to understand that it was a high and not the man’s genuine state of being.

Were all of mother’s friends crazy as she was?

It was an answer to a question that had followed her for a long time, however, that the Earth itself had blessed d’Artagnan with his knowledge of all the things growing in the soil that could quite quickly and harmlessly return one there (or languorously feast on the innards of the victim, leaving them in agony, or leave the mind dumb and muted…); it settled the curves of her smile more firmly into the porcelain of her mask, to know that she was among those blessed by Gods and beloved by fate.

Her ear flicks to and from each of her companions as their words flicker in the conversation, finally settling on Sialia as she decided from the numerous options that Illynx had presented her; a soldier’s walk, hm? Illynx smiles, the darkness of her soul easily spied in the wolfish way her lips curve at the mention of her life until she had acquired her crown of ice.

Glancing to d’Artagnan with her pungent smile still lingering on her lips, she laughs merrily to his reply, too used to his stagnant social abilities to take the teasing as anything more than it was. Anyone who wished to learn from him would have to suffer his mouth; might as well begin the lessons in patience here.

What he says next, however, makes her brows rise and her smile instantaneously vanish into a scowl.

”I was a soldier myself, once,” she says through narrowed lids as her gaze angles its way back towards Sialia, softening some in the passage, ”a good path, one of honor and in which valuable lessons are learned. Never have I done interior design. He’s merely disgruntled none of the caves we expanded in the mining process were his own, as surely he’s seen the purpose was for more than just housing room unless he’s as blind as he is witty.” Of course, she means the Sentinel, a giant among men that would be hard to miss even one was blind – the wind even made a cacophony of its discovery as it beat across the metallic pelt of the thing, loud even while perfectly still.