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."