The scent of a new arrival brings Kyst to her by air, the griffon having newly found her wings and spending most of her time airborne as the novelty wore off. The snow buffeted against her feathers and she dipped a bit too harshly downwards onto Illynx’s back as a show for it, her talons slipping on the slick platinum that covered her and scrabbling for purchase. A chirrup of notice sounds from her once she is properly righted and positioned with her talons among the dark strands of the mare’s lower mane, the Lady having learned enough of Kyst’s way of sharing information to know that there is someone up front, waiting to be greeted.

She had been lost in her thoughts and work on the festival preparations (she had been cataloguing what had been gathered and arranged before slipping away into her mind), distracted with the notion of the floating isle and what had been returned to her conscious during that… moment when Ophelia and the glass woman had been conversing. That she had remembered her father’s face for the first time in a long while was disconcerting, mostly because it laid her raw emotions at the surface and had left her irritable; her son had been avoiding her for it, and it was just as well. It was hard to look at a child who still had a wreath of family around him for support when she had nothing but her fragile, gleaming dreams and a few well polished pawns.

Perhaps some were not just pawns anymore, and that was even more troublesome. So many chinks in her armor and no time at all to mend them, not that she even knew the skills; to just kill them was foolhardy at this point in her life and status and the thought of the bodies of those she had come to depend upon was distressingly distressing.

Her snort is muffled by the snows that pass, but Kyst makes a cat laugh and smirks into the blizzard that comes swift across the land, brought on by the change of season and the promise of Frostfall. That same silence follows them both to the border, where she finds three rather than one and, for the briefest of moments, hesitates when seeing the Lord present.

She has forgiven him (mostly) and has come to a quiet acceptance of his place alongside her. That the Lord of Time had found him suitable has a large role in the change of her heart, but she has also leaned upon him and found that he did not bend or bow beneath any pressures applied so far – and that had to be worth something. At one point, she had even looked to him for orders, admired him for his prowess on the field, and somewhere within her, it still lingered. That she hesitates is only because he is already there, as is Sialia, and she is not truly necessary at this point; her sour mood nearly turns her back around and out towards the storage caverns again.

But something pulls at her to go. Maybe its just Kyst using her emotional influence to her liking or its fate luring her closer to a kindred spirit; she cannot know, but she obliges.

Silently, she sidles up next to the Reaper at a respectable distance – it would be disastrous if anyone was to think that she had an interest in him aside from that of one political force to another, for more than one reason. The main being that she would be a four-winged nine-tongued skybitch before she let Deimos touch her so intimately – much less touch her at all since the last they had sparred together, and the next most important being the smell of the man that was all over the vagrant. Her Engineer, the sire of her darling prince and the machinist who had brought to her nothing but fulfillments and answered summons; she did not love him (or did not think she did, but it was hard to tell when one’s heart was so cold), but the respect and trust she shared with the man was something she gave very few, and the mere smell of him had begun to stir things within her mind that even she had trouble grasping. A warming in her belly loosens the harshness of her mask, golden eyes widening to feel the brush of snow against her lashes as it blew by, occasionally having to blink a flake from the corner of the golden pools.

Perhaps this feeling that wells in her is contentment, hot and delicious against the shivering things that her memories had forced back upon her.

For the time, she says very little aside from sharing her name, having caught the Lord’s query upon arrival and curious to see if he was playing a slight game of his own by asking such an open ended thing as that but mostly quiet because her heart and soul aches and she is too weary to bother courting strangers and two of her fellows. She waits for his answer to the Lord’s question before she speaks – a rare show of courtesy towards another and another hint at her current odd state of mind.

"I am Lady Illynx," she states, smiling softly, inclining her head slightly towards the man with no name, the delicate grey silk of her voice rippling forward in an introduction, "I see the snows have welcomed you here personally." Her smile twitches on her pretty face, a sweeping thing that says she isn't taking a jab at him - rather displaying her ever present humor, one of the many safe guards she has to defend her own heart from the prying eyes of others.