Soft and cool, for nights up here are still yet untouched by the nascent Tallsun, one broad patch of particularly biddable pale mint bentgrass serves as a fine place to tuck her lean legs beneath her and settle for the afternoon with a neat, graceful fold down. The spectacular view was much agreeable, too, with pale purple mountains against a silvery sky, the upper halves of long fallen elephant gods justly shrouded by curtains of great mist; the range rimming the field of vision until disappearing beneath a heavier blanket of fog in the westend. It is relatively quiet here save the occasional musical chime of a meadowlark. Imonada dreamily stares at the infamous cloud crown of this place for some time as it drifts soundlessly across the edges of the pasture, spying long lost faces formed from a mold of vapor, their expressions all twisted in deep agony, before distorting back into a featureless wall of shimmery ash grey.

There were a few others here, only faintly and occasionally glimpsed, dotted along the horizon. One couple is arguing, their angry voices blurred, their passion not. Another small group off to the north huddle together in clandestine meeting, one lifting a head to fervently survey the scattered others in the field. Imonada has already watched them all; boredly grinding her teeth, she carefully pushes both her wings to action and they fan out with the perseverance of the rising sun in a therapeutic stretch. One is perfection, the right, a marvelous art piece of superlative function and high design, exquisitely crafted for speed, endurance, and wide ranged maneuvering. The left bears the same champion ideal in original build, but laid out so it lifts and tilts at an odd angle, the base jutting unnaturally with old mangled bone. Both dark as sin, their glossy obsidian feathers splay through the grass with a luxurious sprawl.

The frame of long lashes that encircle her oblique eyes begin to drift down in sleepy sweeps. Fighting off the siren call of a catnap, she opts instead to lay her faintly hooked ears back and, with a heavy, focusing sigh through the nose, she begins meditating.

Thunder grumbles in the distance like a sickly king on his deathbed and the mists of this place break open, summoning a sudden drizzle light and refreshing like angel kisses caressing her face -- or mother's cool lips as they brush across her feverish forehead, the tips of her long beautiful hair tickling her neck as she moves to engulf her child, but the anticipation for the coming warmth is left stranded, mired in hope that quickly becomes polluted and curdled, as Imonada's mediation slips away like smoke from grasping fingers and with it the memories. Frustration takes their place. She is a prodigy, a phenomenon, both gifted and cursed with a preciously speculator mind capable of feats of recollection, yet pain was the keyholder, the guard, the shell around the most invaluable knowledge about herself. Where she could remember the name, face, and favorite drink of an inconsequential dignitary that once visited her father, entire months were secreted away and one gentle nudge to access them brought about a certain terror not unlike one from watching yourself bleed out. It was practically the same, wasn't it?

A seedling of anxiety begins to bloom in her throat, threatening to spread to and constrict her lungs before coiling in her gut like a festering serpent, but something interesting is about to happen and it distracts her; the ground beneath her vibrating with self-assured steps, coming closer and closer. Eyes still closed, she plays a game. Male or female? The scent wafting from the source is most deliciously masculine, warm like honeyed whiskey tossed back against a cold evening. How big? Larger than her, but that information was paltry as many could claim such. Perhaps fifteen hands or so, then. Fit. Confident. Already, she is compiling his dossier...

But he does something unexpected; he invades her personal space with an unceremonious plop down next to her. Instinctively she folds her wings, rasping them through the grass, to fold neatly at her sides -- although the misshapen one still beetles at the base with a tilted slant. She opens her eyes then, greeting his own beautiful ocher with her shiny obsidian. No reply is given to him yet, as she soaks his image into her mind, raking his fine form through firing synapses. A swarthy amber rich with dulcet tones and a decadent splash of a creamy latte over a sturdy frame of thick muscles, his palette spiced perfectly to his pleasant musk. The perusal he gets is cut off when he moves to readjust the flower threaded through his mane, and she is drawn back to his face and my what a face it is, a destiny of ruin, the kind of face that could damn the most innocent of souls. She would be wise to be careful with this one, taking into account his suave mannerisms.

"They had a monogamous relationship. At least according to her. He does not agree."

She drops her gaze demurely, thoughtfully, before peering back up at him through a sweep of dark lashes. "At some point, the arguing becomes pointless, doesn't it? No amount of fighting will change the past. I am Imonada. You did not disturb me, Rowtag. But you're here for a different reason, aren't you?"