Darkness. It cradled him like an old friend, touched him with soft, cool hands. It whispered of frost and fiery leaves, of snow and cold to come, of the long, deep sleep of all things when winter held the lands in its frigid grip. Mauja's eyes closed as his white head was raised, starlight bathing his face and lighting him up with a soft, pearly glow. Living further south than he had been bred for certainly had its drawbacks, and his visibility at night was one of them. A faint smile curled his lips. But he wasn't dead yet — and his greatest enemies were not wolves and mountain lions, but the other horses of Helovia. A predator would leave once it realized the risk was too great, but he was not so sure all inhabitants would be so easily put off. But then again.. why would they want to kill him? Sighing quietly, Mauja opened his eyes. Who knew? He'd not done anything, yet everyone always treated him and his like they were evil. Nevermind that some of them were evil, and had grand plans, but when they had done nothing..? He shook his head. Amazing, how the victors wrote history and decided what was truth or not.

Movement caught his attention. Light glinted off a white back, white wings, caught an almost metal gleam; Mauja blinked, and wished he could drift back into shadows, but there were none to be found upon an open sea of dying thistles. He was alone with the washed-out green and tan, as visible as a snowdrift upon a dark rock, if not more so with the moonlight tracing his every contour with bright hands. His breathing quietened, his heart a drum-like noise in the back of his mind as the winds stirred, shifted, danced; memory spun, slowly sifting through the events of soon a year ago. The memory of fire was not at all pleasant, and a slight shiver went up his spine. This stallion had been there when the Edge fell — he had fought against them. For what? Glory? Loyalty to Kri, who was loyal to Mirage? Why was there no justice in this world, to drag them before the Gods and declare them villains, for stealing that which belonged to him? Why the fuck was the Moon a sly, backstabbing bitch?

Mauja didn't know his name. Mauja didn't want to know his name. He was one of Kri's dogs; how many herds had he ousted of their homes? Mauja's, and then the Foothills? Neither of them had been his battle. Neither of them had been Kri's. White ears flattened against an equally white neck. The peace he had sought, the peace he had briefly found, was shattered, like fragile glass on hard, cold rock. Anger, from the inflamed wound in his mind, spread like poison through his veins, irrational hatred rising up from the bottom of his soul.

It was childish and he knew it, kept his jaws locked too tight as his body vibrated with the deep need to tear something to pieces.

[ .. not what I expected. >__>; ]

Mauja Frosthjärta