[ OOC: Beard of GLORYYYYY ~ ]

The Lady strides forth after hearing the call rising from the borders, recognizing the voice and pleased to hear it; they had been given few opportunities to speak ever since he had gone all that way with her in the heat of Tallsun to look for a ghost, and while she was not the sort to offer her thanks to anyone, she did feel a good deal more compassion and care for the General than most in her life for how he had helped her that day. Either way, a quick test of the wind determines that he is being useful, for the scent with him is foreign. She shouldn’t be surprised that it is female; she’s taken more than few eyefuls of him, herself.

Her babe bounces along behind her, a black and golden streak that makes irony out of her thoughts. She shouldn’t be thinking about anyone’s muscles with a child in tow, but she is also not the sort of woman to put others and their feelings above her own selfish whims, and she does not think of her thoughts on Torleik’s curving sinew as anything to take offense by. Hell, even Ulrik would have to admit his cousin was stacked, if you could look hard enough through his northern coating, and as with most selfish creatures, she admires all things beautiful.

It is why she gleams and flashes, her golden pelt covered for the time in the burgundy and platinum of her discovered armor, the tree’s gifted amulets jauntily singing against the metal as she trots towards the pair of unicorns standing just outside the sentinel’s imposing frame. Both mother and son come to a pause a polite speaking distance from the two, one golden eye lingering on the bronze unicorn towering over her just as her son nearly plows into his hard side, so focused on the infatuating metal steed that he had forgotten where to walk.

He snorts in aggravation with himself, bounding the last few paces between himself and his mother’s side and looking towards both with the same curiosity he regards all other unicorns with, lion’s tail sweeping gracefully behind him in light contemplation. They have missed any words that might have been spoken between the two of them, and the bitch silently curses that she was so far in the back of the Valley.

And where is Deimos?

She could almost sigh. All the talking seems to be left to her, again.

Don’t get her wrong, now, she adores the sound of her own voice, but sometimes she wishes that her counterpart (slowly she hated him less with each passing day he did not utterly fail her) had a social streak outside of attempting to murder everything and glaring silently. ”Welcome,” she says, her smile sweet and pure, such sharp contrast to her soul, ”I am the Lady Illynx, and this is my son, Rikyn.” The boy, already being schooled in how to speak to others and present himself in the most fine of manners, stands with his tiny little horn pointing towards heaven and his narrow, bony chest puffed forth as he attempts to stand with pride; its awkward, but endearingly so, her young prince already rising to meet her every expectation. His little head nods hello, a faint smile lining his lips.