When Rikyn leans down to hiss in an uncomfortably intimate and none-too-friendly tone, she is about ready for him --or so she believes-- and pans her face toward his, but then his harsh words halt her. Those plush sheath-like ears of hers quickly swivel back, the sheer magnitude of the painful blush exploding beneath her skin forcing her to crane her head away. Whatever firebrand streak that shone earlier is neatly tucked away again, someplace safe, cowed and loathing it. Butchered under her mumbled breath, with her giant ebony feather 'marker' clutched tightly between her teeth, a susurrus of heavy accent is ground out; "Ne'er in thes' life." Intimidated by Rikyn now, a shrewd line of thought fires instantly after the first, doubting that this other stallion would intervene should the dark, gilded unicorn turn upon her with more than unkind words. Fortunately Kipling's shining, heartfelt confession in all its warm honesty melts the ice that threatens to frost over the budding seedlings of her confidence and goodwill.

There are possibly worse things than turtles or the wind.
Unless they're giant snapping turtles or it's a hurricane.
That's just great.

Wait. What the hell did this guy just ask me? The cringe she inadvertently feels is somehow in her lame wing, one strip of muscle there tightening painfully, but she speaks gently and understandingly with naked truth. "I cannae fly, Kipling. I dae love the sky, tho'. I've nae seen a turtle up there, but I ha'e seen a dragon," she stage-whispers conspiratorially, emphasizing the 'dragon'. The feather in her mouth hangs at the corner of her lips, precariously, allowing her to speak without sounding garbled -- never mind the accent. Again she performs that inconspicuous side-eye toward Rikyn's drawing, but watching him craft a rather decent tree turns her expression beaming and friendly. "Wa, sair Rikyn, good choice! An artist's touch, tay, I see."

dont make a lame joke about his using his horn dont make a lame joke about using his hor--

Without much warning, the mood shifts -- cripplingly sensitive and empathetic, Imonada catches it practically immediately, and her heart begins to race with warning. Suddenly a thread of fear worms its way around her throat; these were strangers, what the hell was she doing? Away from the herd that had taken her in? But poor Kipling's defeated stance, burdened and broken voice, his tangible fear -- it softens her. Carefully calculating her next words, imagining what he needed to hear before he escalated, she nonetheless forms them peaceably, intending to soothe. "Kipling. We are in Helovia. You and Rikyn and I. Tis your home an' someone's home welcomes them back unconditionally, nae? Ye can always live here."

A very concerned look is shot Rikyn's way, her almond-shaped eyes silently pleading with him to confirm her reassurance or, even better, offer his own. Maybe handle what may turn into a delicate situation, too... All stallions were to be treated with some measure of respect and wariness, in her mind, least of all for their potential strength; she drew a line at a certain point, especially when they seemed distressed in some manner.

"Kipling," Imonda makes sure to firmly, albeit with great care, address him each time in hopes of holding his attention. "I think ye draw much better than me. Will ye teach me?" She smells faintly and shyly again. "Please?"