The white skyrat begins to irritate the queen of flower—it shows in the increasingly violent flicks of her lion's tail, in the taut line of her mouth. Although she craves to growl and snap at the impudent girl and her asinine words, Lothíriel chooses to curb her tongue. Her father would never speak crassly or without thought, and he is widely feared by those foolish enough to cross him, known to be phlegmatic and ruthless; a paragon of lordliness. Anyway, before she can even consider a suitable retort, the gilt-marked bay comes to her defense, impressing the roan maiden with the steely vehemence of his words. Upon being named a princess, she cranes her neck proudly, all the while observing the hybrid with a belligerent eye. Vaguely, she wonders if it whether it was the child's sire or dam who stooped low enough to fornicate with a specimen of another species. How unnatural the idea seems to the roan girl; she cannot even imagine touching a hornless creature. The very thought causes a shudder to roll down her spine—how vile.

Before responding to her question, the dark bay looks back at her, the smile playing on his lips both dark and titillatingly wicked; Lothíriel gazes back at him curiously, awaiting his tale, but after a bout of petulant silence, the intrusive hybrid interrupts him. Lilac eyes turn to regard her, momentarily inquisitive instead of cool. The idea of such a small girl partaking in a battle is laughable, but the ugly marks on her milky pelt do not lie. What mother would let her young daughter fight? She has always known the lesser races to be daft, but never had she thought them to be so monumentally stupid. "How?" the roan girl inquires with a flick of her tail, her intense curiosity replacing disgust for a split second.

The gilt knight speaks again, causing the queen of flower's attention to shift away from the half-blood. He speaks with more eloquence than the filly, and his features assuming an august expression she has only seen on the faces of old warriors and storytellers. Her ears face towards him with interest, absorbing his tale as if he were her mother, narrating fables of old Isilme. He mentions a great bear god felled by mere mortals—a proud light glitters in her eyes when he mentions her brother. Erebos must be a man now, handsome and strong, an image of their shared heritage. The last time she had seen him was when he was barely weaned off their mother's milk; she resolves to seek him. 

Gods can die, he says to close his story, eliciting an awed expression from the maiden. Concern for her brother blossoms in her belly like so many flowers, but if the gilt knight has survived to tell the tale, then he must be okay. "You are very brave," Lothíriel affirms, stepping closer to him. Her dark face takes on a concerned aspect, and she pauses, pushing her nose towards him in a display of secrecy, speaking quietly so that the hybrid would not hear. "Is Erebos alright?" 

It is then she notices the bones which the mongrel skirts. What remains of the monster's flesh clings to putrid bone in a dappled way that recalls the forest's dim red atmosphere. She blinks several times to ensure it isn't just a play of the light. With a hesitant breath, Lothíriel addresses the hybrid. "Is that it?" she asks (demands to know), eyes narrowed as they study the remains of a great bear. Lothíriel turns to the warrior to confirm her query, still distrustful of the winged girl with corrupted blood.