Today the rumbling thunder was still, the Lady walking alone beneath the pristine open blue of the sky with her platinum armor gleaming, the folds of the cloth that held it to her dampened by the lacquering of sweat building along her frame as she strides through the tall, green grasses that fill the ring of mountains. Her son, now old enough to be left on his own with faith that he wouldn’t cause any embarrassment of true greatness to either of their reputations, was off exploring the Basin, probably with the winged half breed that they had found in the Thistle Meadow.

She had done her best to teach the boy of her ways, to press into his soft mind that the girl known as Aithniel was inferior to him for her wings and mixed heritage; she had explained that, had he not insisted on keeping her, she would have left her there in the sand, perhaps telling the Edge on her way through that a child was dying in the desert. Of course, she elaborates that it would all be a clever ruse to make her look less wicked than the truth, had that been the case – a grand show of being to weak to carry her herself, that the babe couldn’t even stand to nurse… But all her wickedness played little influence on Rikyn’s love of his adopted sister, and even as her wings grew more unsightly with each passing day, the boy grew all the more oblivious to their presence.

Perhaps she should just let it be; it is fine to love one or a few of the enemy if you are still using them to your purpose. She ponders in what way she might shape his lessons to encompass this facet of self preservation in her son as she walks, her golden lined body streaming with grace from the sunlit vale into the dark, cool haven of the pine woods that ringed it.

Rarely is she bothered here, in this place. It is too quiet and peaceful to truly warrant others company, the sort of domain that those who wish to be alone may come and others will respect their decision to be so. That was not to say that the wildlife of the mountain herd gave as much care to the solemn nature of those who wandered the fragrant forest.

As she rounds a path that will carry her about the feet of one of the great peaks that hide her home from the prying eyes of the world, her quiet walk is shattered by the capricious song and flight of a group of young griffons, their mothers over head in the high branches of the ancient conifers and jagged outcroppings of the mountain, and all this region of the forest is filled with the sounds of their elation. It is a common thing in Helovia, the ascendance of the winged, magical creatures into the skies, but Illynx herself has never been so close to an occurrence and she silently curses herself for not having brought Rikyn along for her walk.

He would have loved this.

The feathered cats dip and dive gracefully through the air after the less than elegant first moments in the wind’s grasp, and she smiles at their delight and marvels at the beauty of the elders who swoop in to assist and train their hatchlings. She continues to walk beneath them, golden eyes angled upwards to watch their lessons and to spy upon those who do not dot the sky with their myriad colors, pausing only when she spies something sticking out like a great red beacon with glowing eruptions of light.

The rugged stone on which the black bird woman sat was lower than most, her oil-like feathers gleaming lucidly in the filtered light. The Lady, usually one to follow her impulses, steps towards the Harpy, her golden eyes still gleaming with the joy of watching the hatchlings in play, highlighted by her wonder and why it is this creature roosts among the unicorn’s friends.

She asks as much, as she pauses before her. ”Why have you chosen to roost among the Griffons, mistress?” the inquiry is light, not mocking; she has heard tales of the Harpy that leave her quite sweet and innocuous in the magical creature’s presence, and would loathe to offend a woman with the surely massive talons that rest beneath her black bosom.

Illynx has not forgotten the stupid blue dragon back at the Edge. Time bless Lena and her ability to mend the savaged ruins of such a splendid coat as her own.

When the woman’s eyes turn to her, Illynx feels the weight of them, the appraisal of the creature crafted purely from magic; while her racism reaches out towards those who bare the appearance of equine, time and time again she has been proven to be more forgiving towards those who were simply not at all like she was in anyway, or who seemed to be touched by a higher magic that was beyond her understanding. She could recall most immediately if asked the companions of her friends and acquaintances, the most obvious of answers, but also the horse-man who had called himself Kelec. A centaur, the scraggly unicorn had said at the time, another face who was no longer present among them, short lived and brief like a flash of electricity through the sky; she had never seen another creature like Kelec before or since, and doubted she ever would. It had almost immediately earned the strange man a place among them as far as she was concerned – for Illynx has a lust for power, and what greater proof of power and birth right is there than to keep the magically blessed and physically strong among their people?

She had once even offered a tiger a home among them, seeing great promise in the white gleam of his teeth and the broad expanse of his paws. She was not truly as evil as even she liked to think of herself, not when one thought of these things, and it is perhaps this aspect of herself that the Harpy sees as her hems and clicks turn into an offer that draws a smile to the Lady’s lips as soon as the creamy shell is revealed from beneath the greasy feathers of the woman bird, growing broader as the creature removed herself from the surface and goaded the golden mare forward.

She does as the Harpy asks. It is not a difficult task, truly; what resides inside that shell will grant her the same fierceness that had left the faint etches of scars along her spine, hidden well by the golden smoke-work along her pelt and the magical song of Lena, but remembered as if they burned and crackled in the mountain air. The pain – that was of course remembered – was nothing in comparison to the bruises left deep in her ego.

Her muzzle extends towards the oblong sphere, feeling the pulse of life within it rush through her flesh and settle deep in her brain and heart. Her golden eyes glimmer in all the ways that the Harpy’s are dead, her heart racing under the excitement of having discovered this while alone in the woods.

No, it was good she had not brought Rikyn. He would have only interfered.

”It is as if I was meant to walk this path today,” she muses aloud, her eyes still glazed in affection for the precious egg in front of her, ”to save you.” Closing her eyes only briefly, she opens them to tuck the egg tight between her chin and neck, her pulse throbbing against it as her eyes flicker back towards the Harpy.

”Thank you mistress, for protecting it,” she says, ”I will do my best. I have little experience in such things as raising eggs, you see.” Her giggle is short and light, most of her attentions paid to holding the egg in place against her throat and keep it from slipping until she can get it home to her cave. ”Aside from warmth, what will it need of me? You have the air of one who has guided many a hatchling to the skies.”

@[Random Event]

She listens to the hiss of the bird woman and starts ever so slightly, understanding entirely why it is she was so aggravated as the smooth surface of the egg takes its freedom and rolls back down into the nest. The Lady’s ears splay atop her head and she smiles in apology, the lilt of her voice explaining most immediately that she was not a professional keeper of eggs and gratitude finding purchase in her features as the Harpy gathers the orb in her large, gleaming talons and takes to the skies along side her.

Together, the Lady walks through the woods with the creature, listening to her odd way of speaking and hearing, rather than a tale of greatness and magical prowess as she had assumed to find, a story that is quite sad. She had not known much of the species of the Harpy until this moment, and is surprised to hear that they mate for life; it is even more shocking that this splendid bird is alone because of the eternal absence of the one she had chosen. ”It is good that you have found solace,” she comments. The golden gaze of the woman slides over the creature with sadness in their depths, but she finds little of this emotion in the features of the Harpy. Perhaps it has been long enough that the pain of the loss no longer scalds, or she found such peace in protecting eggs she discovered in need of her that the loss of her mate didn’t fill her with despair.

Illynx does not know, nor does she assume to.

It doesn’t take them long to reach her cave, the emerald covering of her moss drapery a mark she comes to and pauses, continuing to take in the words of the bird woman and drawing to halt just outside its comforts. The Harpy might fit into the stone room if she kept her wings tight to her, but if she is at all like the wild birds of the mountain, she will not enter. Caves are for bats and unicorns, as far as Illynx can tell.

Despite her wonder as to whether or not the Harpy will enter, it seems she does, but only just enough to deposit the egg in a nook in the stone where Illynx quickly lowers herself to wrap limb and still round belly around the surface of the cream object, keeping it warm as the Harpy had insisted upon and listen to her words with raptness.

Meat?

The bird is flying out and onto a stone outcropping that looks into the mouth of the cave, the moss fluttering from her exit and leaving a clear viewpoint into the mare and egg, Illynx’s ears back on her head in utter dismay at having to touch dead, bloody flesh but deciding that it is worth it if it means she will be granted a companion for the task. ”Soon?” she asks with a smile on her lips, looking down at the object with wonder as to how soon soon is.

It answers her, a tiny quaking rising through it, drawing her eyes broad and leaving her with an anxious feeling in her stomach, muzzle reaching out to stroke the egg as it wobbles on the stone and against the rounded support of her belly. After what feels like eternity, a small fleck of the shell breaks away, revealing an orange tipped beak that quickly works away at its confines, the woman’s heart racing all the more swiftly with each passing moment.

Slowly, it cracks, the hatchling working its way out. Every now and again she pulls away a large shard that seems to dampen the hatchling’s progress, finding with great delight that the wet pelt of the animal is golden and black, dappled and creamy. Every passing moment she feels a swell rise and fall within herself, touching her muzzle to the babe lovingly as it is born into the world.

When it finally tumbles loose and meets its pale, pale blue eyes to her golden ones, a wave of emotion so deep and perforating runs through her that she wonders how she could love Rikyn at all. A tiny peep rises from the chest of the kitten’s face, its flightless wings folded tight against its small frame, and through the slight bond already held between the two of them, she feels the babe’s desperate need for food wrack through her. Desperation fills her bones as she nickers sweetly down at the hatchling, rising to her legs and moving towards the corner of her cave where, sometimes, she finds the occasional roosting bat.

Fortune finds her; there are several of the large beasts, so used to her arrivals and disappearances from the cave that they don’t expect the bolt of lightning that strikes them dead – didn’t even manage to crack a single eye open. Their bodies hit the stone floor with a sickening crack that makes the woman grunt in disgust, her skin literally crawling as she lifts the frame of the largest bat in her teeth and moves it closer to the hatchling.

Dropping it before the griffon, a smile rises to her lips as her tiny beak savagely tears at it, blood running across the stone and down the dangerous curve of her beak.

”Is it good, my little Kyst?” she asks, not really sure where the name has come from but finding that the griffon clicks her beak in the most pleased of ways before diving back into the flesh presented to her. Rising her eyes to search for the Harpy outside her door frame, the Lady lets her voice sound out should she find that figure still lingering on the outcropping or not - ”May the Gods bless you for this, Mistress,” she calls out, returning her attentions to the babe.