The dark stag with his striking gilt accents is not overlooked; another swarthy beast diverging from the conformity of their frosted-glass surroundings. Imonada is already shamelessly staring at him, adorned with an expression that betrays nothing, even as they lock onto one another for a fleeting moment as he sends her a disinterested glance entirely functional in nature. But when he turns his attention to the other unicorn whose saccharine laughter drew them both, the tip of her cherry-pink tongue peeks out between two rows of neat teeth and soft lips, her pokerface rapidly dissolving as her shiny doll eyes bore holes into the back of his skull. Or try to, at any rate. Hundreds of voices, tumbling down the thread of history from ancestor to parent, had vowed her betrothal to the crown of her old country's monarchy; passing through countless generations, a vessel of cognatic primogeniture now irrelevant, lost to the other myths of her tribe the day the dynasty finally crumbled. It wasn't as if she was raised to expect status; it was a detached concept for her, from some rigorously dogeared page in their bible that promised many, many things. But she was the child of leaders, and to receive such blasé acknowledgement and easy disregard was like lighting a fire under her ass.

It would not be precise to say that she shoves Rikyn aside, for their bodies do not collide, but she certainly pays him no homage as she trots past him pointedly; even if it isn't the easiest of tasks with the snow, she picks her feet up timely and strongly enough to begin gliding through and forward toward Kipling, her banner of a tail cocked high and regal, black and undulating tacitly with the force of movement like a pirate flag hoisted high above the seas; flicking it once near Rikyn as she does so, tossing those inky tendrils with absolute disregard for any surface they might manage to ghost across. Imonada does not seek to overtake his position with Kipling, however; instead, her context a seamless integration into the fold. She was prone to not bring about attention, but perhaps influence from the incredible myriad of colorful personalities in this new land has eased the way, allowing her to room to branch out; to behave in ways that strengthen her resolve, her sense of self. For now, she has a taste --a dollop on the tongue, really-- of freedom from her own self made cage. Whether or not her cautious submissiveness rears its needy little head again depends on how the two handle her. As for Rikyn alone, it wasn't as if he directed much other than a baleful, dismissive glance tossed her way like one does balled up trash. He wasn't posing much threat, yet, aside from his size difference -- which was too common in her experience to fret about, aside from those that would even tower over him.

Peering down at Kipling's picture carving in the snow which had been thrust aside by his spear of a horn, she makes a theatric show of pondering, but responds frankly and assuredly. "It looks loch a turtle." She gives Rikyn the infamous side-eye through a fan of sooty lashes, admittedly curious to hear his answer, but she addresses Kipling again. "I'm Imonada." Is that a tiny ghost of a smile she offers him? His unrestrained exuberance is contagious, rubbing off on her and charging her with new energy; taking his suggestion in mind, she cranes her head back to neatly pluck out a massive quill feather from her lame wing before using its tip and shaft to begin marking for her own piece of art.