Hello. Who are you? A week ago, such a question would have earned a sarcastic, flippant and probably none-PG response, but for once Oizys is able to bite her tongue. It's too soon to say she has turned over a new leaf and is now the paragon of politeness, but her dam's death has somewhat tamed the fuck-you-world attitude inside her. For now, anyway - perhaps when her grief has faded, the old Oizys will return. "My name is Oizys, formerly of the World's Edge." The words hold no sharp edges, no venom, no rage - they are neutral, tentative almost.

Before she can elaborate further, she hears a warning; a voice booms across the snow, preaching caution regarding the Sentinel. The filly glances around for the hidden source, whilst shooting a wary side-eye at the metal beast. "And here was me resisting the urge to give it a cuddle," comes her sarcastic response, unbidden. Ah, there's the sass! The words feel good, like a hand fitting back into a familiar glove, but they also fill her with guilt, as though daring to say anything that isn't sad is an insult to her dam's memory.

There's a hint of familiarity around the man who approaches, who offers the words of warning; it takes her a moment, but she remembers. Back when Kisamoa was good and Kaos wasn't even a thing, she'd helped him move logs whilst she tittered in amusement at a shapeshifter meeting the living version of his stolen identity. Laughter seems like a strange, foreign sound now. He is a handsome, well-built young stallion, the sort that her mother would have eyeballed, cougar-style, whilst Oizys covered her eyes in disgust. How she'd love for Nyx to be here now, embarrassing her!

Was your saviour mended? The gargoyle stiffens, tightens. Ker's shivering is forgotten as she automatically leans to twine her beak around Oizys' mane, a gesture of reassurance. That's the part that the slate yearling doesn't like to dwell on - the fact that almost all of the gathered Helovian population saw her jumping recklessly in to fight the monster, and saw Nyx dying in order to save her. "She was my mother," says the girl, and her voice is strong. All her life she's had to deny that she came from Nyx's womb, had to lie and say she was a foundling, an orphan. She's always wanted to shout from the rooftops that she is the daughter of the great Reginald, but now she feels equally as keen to announce that she is the daughter of the brave Nyx, too.

She looks away from the stallion, her expression grave. "And no, she wasn't." To some, the offhand, casual way Oizys says this may appear crass, uncaring. The opposite is quite true - she never shows her feelings, so this to her is an explosion of emotion, with the downwards tilt of her lips and the unhappy sag of her ears. Those cold grey eyes burn with sorrow, even if the face that surrounds them refuses to succumb to the weaknesses of the flesh. Inside, she's screaming.

She shuffles, keen to shift the subject aside. "I have come to join the Basin, if you will have me." She stands tall, displaying each impressive muscle beneath the grey fur, showing off her draft-like shape and her fledgling warrior's build. She has power running through her blood, after all, and it shows in the elegant yet functional curve of her neck, the stocky set of her body. The filly needs them to see her potential, so they may look past what they saw during Kaos' reveal.