The crack of the large, straight pine collapsing from where her magic had damaged the trunk was savage, echoing about the valley as it crashed down and into the woodlands surrounding it. Birds took to the sky, their indignant cries washing out the sound of her laughter as she circles around to the fallen giant’s top, having been careful to be far enough away that it wouldn’t crush her when it came down.

"Holy crap!" exclaims the nearby colt, bounding forward on cloven hooves to examine the charred stump that had once supported the tall conifer, his eyes wide with wonder and the cuss word ignored by his dam, missed entirely by the boy who had said it – he was too busy in his teeming head to worry much about what was coming out of his mouth, and she had to admit it was a better than “Moon’s tits!” as she had heard him exclaim last week.

She really should be more mindful of her tongue around him, she silently chides, the comforting weight of Kyst upon her back as she lets her will gather along her horn once more and begins the work of removing the thicker boughs that cannot be broken by physical strength alone. She has to work quickly before the tree dries out – wildfires don’t sound pleasant, especially with the lingering damage of the fires they had used to ward off the wolves when they had attacked.

A sigh slips from her as she spies the blackened patches of earth around the lake, the silvery sounds of its shores filling in the spaces that her crackling lightning and the coming blows on the bark left mute. They may not have liked Psyche, she thinks bitterly, but more damage has come to the beautiful features of the land beneath her rule than it ever did in the Empress’. Maybe she should be thankful she was worth bothering, that their children were tasty enough to lure a young pack to their deaths – but she was mostly bitter.

Her world was meant to be beautiful and without flaw; from the ruined hillock of stones to the charred grasses, it was slipping further and further from its pristine perfection, and while few probably cared but her – it still raked at her.

"Rikyn," her voice commands, and the boy looks up obediently and trots over to her even before she can tell him what to do, "get these small branches loose, will you?" The colt does as he is asked, grimacing at the tart taste of the sap on his tongue.

"Dis twee tase ‘orrible," he grumbles, and Illynx laughs with her silvery lyrics for a few moments as she continues to blast the more resilient branches free.

"Its why we eat grass, not trees," she says sweetly enough, pausing to pull aside the freed branches to better see what still had to be done. At least, she notes with a smile, the branches that fell face first into the earth have already been broken off.

The conversation lulls into nothing after the boy gives her sour look that she replies to with a casual wink, her work filling her thoughts and actions until there is a barren, tall post of pine where there had once been a felled tree. Smiling happily with herself, she steps back to observe their work, her boy falling in line alongside her – still looking hard and with great interest at the black remnants of the stump.

She’ll need help moving it, she decides, but she might as well pick out her next foliage ridden victim while she waits for someone to amble by.

@[Beowulf]

[ OOC: Also open to anyone who wants to help Beo move big ass trees to the front of the herd. <333 ]

Instead of finding the next tree to fall beneath her magic and be used for decorative purposes, she finds a massive blue creature seen many times in the frosted vale during meetings held and the hours that crept placidly by and the herd meandered. She had shared words with him once, even, but it was a long while ago; she feels no remorse for the distance between herself and some of the herd, an understanding long settling within her that she would be limited to only watching most of them, so many were her fold. Still, it did not hurt to know as much of them as she might, and she had also learned that, over time, she came to know them all if they stayed.

Perhaps it was a truth that she should live by, to give her minutes to only those who remained through the seasons and did not vanish into the wild lands or the neighboring realms of Helovia to never be seen again. It was not that she ever forgot those who come and gone with the swiftness of a midwinter gale, or that she should disdain those who were new to her home and perhaps not long to stay, but that she might need to put more care into nurturing her false relationships at home as well as with the opposing political forces she wished to topple.

Beowulf had been here for a long while, though he had done nothing that was worth mention aside from patrolling the outside boundaries – that she had ever heard of, anyway, nary a whisper of a stolen trinket or a felled foe, a child to bare forward his lineage or an item crafted. But there was no fault in that; perhaps the gentle giant hadn’t a clue where he belonged in her odd gaggle of unicorns, and was simply not the sort to wear a guise that said he wanted anything more than the simple life he had now. There were plenty of her fold who were well skilled and adept in the fields of battle and stealth, herbalists and magicians, and they were sufficient enough to protect the few who had no use aside from being another body to place between her precious home and an invading army.

Perhaps, she muses, it was up to her to decide these things for them. How many times had she been asked where she would have them, what skills she would pour into their minds? She wonders if there is a spell of some sort which she might bespell them with freewill to make such simple decisions on their own.

His concern washes over her while she thinks, a sweet smile adorning her lips as her son drops the branch in his mouth and smiles excitedly at the massive stallion. As swift as if she had not been thinking of other things while he spoke, she answers with grace and independence lingering in each silvery syllable. "We are quite fine, Sir Beowulf," she intones, not sure why she calls him Sir other than that he has approached her with the nobility and kindness of a man deserving of such a title (perhaps he should meet Torleik, she thinks with a lightening to her golden eyes, they could both share words on how to woo women with their beguiling sweetness), "I was simply felling trees for the festival tent."

His eyes have found her son, however, and Kyst chirrups a stifled laugh at the eagerness with which the boy responds. His dark body tenses with a faulty grace he attempts to steal from his mother’s carriage, ears erect and slender neck arching with all the pride she knows his heart to contain. Her prince is learning swiftly that, while he may be a child, he is her child, and just like young Erebos and the growing Lothiriel, he had a right to his arrogance for the lineage that poured through his veins. His sire was a councilman, and Huyana had once been the mare to which the Time Lord came – while they were not the frosty rulers of the mountain, they were certainly adept and among the most prized of their numbers.

She smiles fondly in thought of Ulrik, a man who had willingly parted with some of his strength to kindle the magic in her prized tent of secrets, brought to life her sentinels and her son; that Rikyn is so like him in appearance and seems to have been gifted the remarkable intelligence of his sire fills her with pride as she looks on him.

"I’m Rikyn, son of the Engineer and GildedBlade," he says proudly, using both names of his parents as he has been instructed to while meeting herd members for the first time – it has only now begun to cleave to his natural skills in conversation, and another swell of pride brims in her as he delicately inclines his head in a royal bow of introduction, "but you can call my Ryn if you’d like."

Her ear flicks as it always does at this nickname, occasionally slipping from him ever since the party at the black tent of the Moon’s kin. It is fitting, she supposes, but she does wonder what is wrong with his whole name with a sting of bitterness.

"It is good you have come, brother," she says, her smile and words interrupting her son before he can carry forward with the teeming mass of words that are surely brimming up against his lips, her limbs carrying her closer to the giant blue stallion in a few long strides, "I will need help getting these to where the tent will stand, and you seem well suited for such tasks."