Tallsun light in its sovereign season filters haphazardly through the breeze-tousled canopy arched overhead to dance in dappled geometry across the forest floor. A few shafts, undisturbed, sparkle with dust motes as they shear through the bush, contouring Imonada's lean figure in bright highlights and deep shadows; her Arabesque ancestry translucent, displayed in fine sloped ridges and articulate symmetry. It's there in her sleek neck, too, as it easily stretches to accommodate her foraging amongst the low-laying thicket. Large, loose-petaled flowers in varying shades of canary yellow are being snatched up methodically with clean nips at their stems, each colorful head disappearing quickly into her mouth. Not normally one for mindless grazing, the little blossoms provide her an extra treat in addition to their savory syrupy nectar; a heady astir buzz not unlike one gifted by caffeine. For an addict such as this small flightless pegasus, who wasn't merely drawn to particular effects but also the promise of alteration to her sensitive perceptions, she took her game just about anywhere.

About ready to devour another hapless bloom, a faint growl abruptly stops her instead. Instantly, tension tightens her muscles across the board, her relaxation swirling down the drain as it is milked away by apprehension. Jerking her head up toward the direction of the sound, ears forward and straining, acuity silencing the joyous twinkle of wind and the serenading birdsong, the area falls victim to her nimble survey -- but through the palisade of the trees, she only catches a glimpse of thick flaxen hair set in lazy waves, complimented by a swatch of sunkissed hide splattered with droplets of white like paint flecked from a brush, before the stallion calls out and announces himself with movement to match.

She stays back within the shelter of knitted copse to gauge the situation at first, blatantly eyeing his sturdy form in an informative pursuit -- with, perhaps, a bit of appreciation for his size and exceptional build, a fine embodiment of masculinity she could not help but admire. His dark companion, too, is duly and respectfully noted as she cherry-picks the preferable options of reaction off the conveyor of ideas, before forging ahead with a decision. A soft, ghostly nicker wafts through the heavy summer air, greeting Daemyn as Imonada finally reveals herself to him; a black mare, long wings primed to flex out in customary heralding, her tender expression full of curiosity and wariness.

Instinctively, Imonada's long, velvety ears, dark and fuzzy, swivel backward and lay prone against her poll when Mato sneers at her, but her expression remains fixed. She considers pacing over to the canine and offering her snout to sniff as a peace-offering, but even as a small horse she worried her approach would be interpreted as aggression, so she opts instead for displaying good will and welcoming to ease everyone. 

Somewhat humble but endlessly patient, she allows Daemyn to soak her in from that polite distance she characteristically maintains with acquaintances, graciously and quietly accepting appraisals, adopting a bit of a prim and demure positioning; feet paired and mirroring one another, her posture straight and just shy of military, with her tail lifted and tilted to allow the black silkstream of thick hair to flutter like ribbons around her lean legs. Those fabulous wings of her neatly folded away and stored at her sides like cherished treasures, uneven. A fit figure she cuts, attempting to convey reception and approachability through sloe-eyed aesthetics. 

Unbeknownst to him, it was a result of carefully calculated reasoning, for the ideal effect. 

""Tis quite alright, sir." As if to emphasize, her lips curl at the corners delightfully in a friendly, toothy smile that bares pearly caps all in a neat row. With Cobra coursing hot through her veins, she felt in control. On top of the world. Feeling, sensing everything, from the way her own breath ghosted warm out her nose, to the heat of the sun laid across her backside and felt by every centimeter stretch of highly sensitive skin, to the fine distinction between the legitimate canticle of a ocher orchard oriole and that of the answering counterfeit of a mockingbird, to the way the ground was exceptionally soft and yielding beneath her hooves. A collage of infinite awareness filtered through content. 

"My name is Imonada. I work under Knox at the Hidden Falls." She relied heavily on intuition; in this case, being reticent felt pointless, if not counterproductive. What was the purpose of hoarding secrets and information if it was never to be employed? Besides, her allegiance and role weren't classified. "It is nice to meet you, Daemyn. And you, too, Mato. Tell me, do you two have a place to stay? The Threshold is not for camping."

Her carefully crafted image breaks apart gradually as she relaxes, becoming sincerely personable; the growing ease inside reflecting back upon her worldly surface, her dusky eyes scanning the violet pools of his own. Such lovely eyes... "Well, then I will respect his boundaries," she supplies, with a slight dip of her narrow chin. The furtive exchange between the stallion and his companion elicits a nearly imperceptible tilt of her head as she watches with quiet, sparkling interest. It concerns her, as paranoid as she is sometimes, and she quickly prepares herself for a bomb to be dropped -- but all he does is tell her that Hidden Falls was his home, too, albeit a tad shyly. She lets loose breath she did not even know she was holding and her face brightens in response to his admission. "Good! We can all head back together." Her normally casual, smokey voice has taken on an airy and clarion measure of delight; she enjoyed others and their company, even if for the wrong reasons sometimes.

"I won't lie; I am new to Helovia. Well newish. I was chased out my home last winter and wound up here in Birdsong. Brisa took me in, do you know her? Very kind, very white." She angles away and motions back where she had come in a clear suggestion, framed in the natural archway of two gnarled beech trees paired together and liberally draped with a pelt of glossy vines. "Come on, both of you." Scaly clouds in the pale periwinkle sky creep over the sun with a tepid stream of wind, bringing the day's heat to heel. It will be a nice, cozy evening for their upcoming journey. Pleased with the knowledge, her encouragement lacks true urgency. 

"I want to grab flowers for someone, at some point. What brings you back to this land, if you don't mind me asking?"