The mousy pitter-patter of rain, a child's voice calling her name; then tall bodies standing all in a row, each dusted in thousands of effervescent haloes, all in unique colors, many that she could never hope to explain yet somehow perceived. But before long they begin to coalesce and morph, with a slickness in movement like slippery oil, into one entity no longer sporting any ethereal crown. Of any color. It bears down upon as one cancerous mass. In that awful, disappointing way of dreams she can not flee or move with any urgency. Legs weighted down with leaden shoes and her wings, in nightmare as in the waking world, fail her. The betrayal of body and command leaves her cold and bereft, numbing her just before she is to be swallowed whole, the taint pouring into her lungs and filling everything with all-consuming darkness.

As a bruised-plum twilight descends, so does the song of night arise. Seemingly out of nowhere, lightning bugs streak about like ephemeral comets in the swirling ink blot of other crepuscular insects hovering by the riverside. Having fallen into slumber, Imonada dreams of the maniacal time possessed by that black-lung disease. Naery's approach and momentary alarm is beyond reach for the slight raven pegasus, but as soon as the paint speaks she is jarred awake with a sharp intake of breath nearly desperate and wild. Dark eyes wide and radiant peer up to meet a cool, bright gaze set in fae features like gemstone fixtures. She takes a moment to stare, quickly gathering information on the girl before her. Her age and gender surmised; appearance, scent, voice filed away; her potential for aggression measured. Naerys' youth is obvious, from her fit form to her luminous energy. Thoughts of her own sister crawl into her mind, but she pushes them aside with a cruel swiftness, sparing herself in the meantime.

"Hey," she responds after a few beats just shy of awkward; her hail more bland, slow, but pleasant all the same. Thin clouds stripe the horizon, their bellies still faintly burning like embers, and shadows swarms the two of them as one shrill scream of a frog ignites a chorus of similar cries. Imonada looks away, out toward the river; a velvety rich midnight-blue that shivers in the dwindling light. "So," she draws out, "What kind of trouble are you looking for?" When she looks back to regard the white-splashed bay again, her expression is both roguish and genuinely curious. It's something in the way her brow twists.