It wasn't like she was spying on her own herdmate. No, no, not at all. Spying implied some level of maliciousness or at least ulterior motive. Alright, maybe she had an ulterior motive, but since when was curiosity and the need to sate it a crime? So maybe she WAS following Brisa. The woman had rescued her from folly and certain death at the hands of starvation and dehydration; so she was... interesting to Imonada's ravenesque inquisitiveness. What secrets did she have that the blackbird could uncover? What layers could she peel back, dissect, and analyze? Although she had no intention to bring harm upon her new friend, quite the opposite really, information was the currency that truly sparkled in her eyes. The more she knew, the better it was, for everyone -- at least that was how she justified her sleuthing. Could you even blame her, really? Useless log of a wing that hummed in dull pain every day even through the Chase, the high affectionately dubbed by her older cousins in reference to the plant which provided it, she would always be a disadvantaged fighter. Not to mention the chemically induced haze, or its nasty withdrawal. She'd never charm her way up the rungs, nor would she ever hope to weave dream into real form. The thought of her, of all things, leading anyone anywhere other than astray was laughable, too. But she got around, so to speak, and while she couldn't soar the sky as the gods originally intended she always had an ear to the ground instead and remembered things; not like her father's birthday or to eat timely, but precious things, things she learned others wanted to know, too. That was her golden ticket, to be something other than the worst of things; ordinary.

It really sort of just happened. By accident. No grand scheme having been concocted. She'd returned home to Hidden Falls shortly after that antipodal crocodile god finally fell, literally incinerating away as the Sun God's magic reduced it to nothing more than trophies and memories, in order to recuperate and process the event; but the opportunity to really rest slipped away one afternoon as quickly as Brisa headed out of their lands. The call of the wild, summoning her restless spirit, had her now picking her way carefully through the forest -- deeper and deeper, as quiet as a mouse and as dark as the shadows that surrounded her. Reprieve from the beating heat of the sun beneath cool shade begun to roll over into a sticky discomfort where the air felt clogged, choking, and heavy, trapped as it was within the dense thicket alive with song and rampant scuttling. Keeping a healthy distance from her mark, she favors her shoulder, having been jostled in the chaos of the fighting; now tender, sporting a massive bruise from the kiss of a stallion's chest as he barreled past her.  

A blade of sunlight spears into her eye and she hisses like a struck snake, the resulting pain like a steaming ice prick straight through the soft organ, momentarily stunning her as a day-old headache flares into nascent beginnings of a legitimate migraine. She loses track of Brisa at this juncture, but immediately catches hold of the scent that must have made that white flash of a mare disappear; it's male and foreign. Submerged in stealth mode, her paranoia and wariness are given headway. Never mind the low likelihood of anything bad actually happening, because, well, it just might. Alarmed, she fires up her pace to reach Brisa and bursts through the trees, calling out in caution, stumbling onto the duo. Practically slamming into Brisa's rump, she saves face with a crafty maneuver of light and sure feet, meanwhile sending a sweeping survey across the angel's svelte form to check for any inconsistencies.

"BRISOooh."

She notices Morenth then. Really notices him. Imonada's blatant staring is incredible in its shamelessness as a myriad of emotions play across her face, no holds barred, an open book for even the most emotionally illiterate, her mouth slightly ajar like a suffocating fish as lean brows stretch high. But it isn't really lust in her gaze as it travels, molten, across the dark stripped patterns laid into the sepia gradient scrim and shocks of white so complimentary, over his thick curtain of a sable mane, and through the ombre waterfall of his moving tail. No, it has a larger and brighter gleam of artful esteem, her raven heart desiring his presence far beyond such base carnal matters. With a slow blink, she recovers and offers her own greeting; a deep dipping bow accompanied by her wings fanning out slightly in a stylish display.

"'Allo. I am Imonada." Pulling her stance and wings back into confined personal space, she looks over at Brisa and gently, ever so gently, bumps her forehead to the other mare's neck in a shy regard.

Now Morenth has two little mares in front of him. One black. The other white as snow.