Striking mights and maybes even more

A useless thing called life

It's a biting cold again

That it was the black, bull-like form of Lucius to show up first was a curse. While he didn't know the stallion all that well, he'd caught on more than one occasion that he was one of the more diehard racists.. and not exactly silent about it either. With Irma on his shoulder he steeled himself for what was to come, readying a number of phrases on his tongue while giving no outward sign of preparing - he just remained relaxed, at ease, ears swiveling while once his head turned to confirm that there indeed was a black bull on the horizon behind them. The heaviness of his step nearly reverberated through the snow, a faint tremor in the frozen ground even as the daintier form of Faelene slipped across it. The first comment caught him entirely by surprise, Lucius hitting on a hornless?!, until it was cut short with a disgusted exclamation and withdrawal. If he wasn't arrogant enough himself to believe he could handle the bull, Mauja might've felt fear at the display of power, sinews stretching taut under black skin and heavy hoof falling into the snow. Anything unlucky enough to have been beneath was surely dead.

Perhaps it was a good thing that Tor had a mouth in her face too, as she came with an analytical retort. Faelene backed her up, and Mauja felt grateful for the red-haired mare's presence; she was sensible, at least. "Ah, Lucius," he said, hating himself for the words coming from his mouth. "You really need to learn to take your chances. Or does not the end justify the means, hm?" One 'brow rose coolly, the rhetoric slipping off his tongue too easily. He was caught in a dilemma, a trap; part of him wanted to save face in front of Tor to prevent the spreading of more rumors of racism, as they, in the end, made attaining their goals of dominion harder. And on the other hoof... he did not want to make Lucius feel as if he were being shut down, when in truth the Ice King mirrored his opinion on the lesser races. Something sobered on his face as he maneuvered past Faelene, offering her muzzle a gentle bump in passing. "Look, we don't have much choice. The quicker we recover..." He spoke in a whisper, hoping Lucius wouldn't run away from him or attack; part of him wanted to treat the loyal bull as a rabid dog, hence his calm approach and gentle voice, but another part wanted to beat sense into his thick skull. Eyes sought his yellow, to firmly hold them, words trailing off into silence. He ought to understand, that the quicker they were back on their feet... The less pain they had to deal with... The stronger they would become, and the faster their rise. He fought the urge to murmur please.