[ Uhm, Mauja has a judgmental weird, okay? xD ]

It suddenly became one of those moments when Mauja's mind disengaged, and the devil crept into him. "Judgment or no, I believe we make the choices we feel we must, and our morals are.... relative." To him, that said, "I'm a right selfish bastard, and I'll do what I want if I can get away with it". And to Mauja's odd sense of justice, it was like waving the red flag in front of a bull. The archangel within him spread its glorious wings as Lucifer himself painted a target on Rostislav's back. He breathed in, deep into his chest, lungs aching with the swell—but aside from that, he did little at first. Just felt the detachment, the crystalline clarity of chill, settle in his veins. When he breathed out again, his breath turned to white smoke in the cavern, dissipating quickly before his face.

We make the choices we feel we must. What the hell did that mean, anyway? Our morals are relative. His teeth ground themselves together, listening to Kari ask about the egg, inching closer with a boy's curiosity. The only truths are morals and perspective his mind whispered, and hating it all the same. If he'd been raised to believe himself superior, of course he believed it morally just, and right. He breathed out again, another cloud of white rising towards the distant cavern roof as Rostislav answered, waiting for you, oh, was it? Mauja's mind growled.

Sometimes his penchant for mischief and trickery was harmless, simply a means to amuse himself at the expense of others—and sometimes, it was born from actual dislike, from that odd, deeply rooted sense of justice. Equality, even, between everything, some vague, half-realized dream of utopia where he wouldn't have to deal with idiots.

So when Rostislav had finished talking, Mauja's inner devil had managed to convince itself that yes, this was a good time to do something. With a blank, slightly disapproving face and eyes of coldest glacier ice Mauja moved, much like a behemoth carved from stone suddenly coming to life, yet not without grace; large, frosted hooves found their footing on the rocky floor, sliding with ease over the crystal panels. No matter what happened he would stay clear of the egg, for he had no desire to harm it.

But what he did, was arch his thick neck and turn his head slightly to the side, and simply tried to walk into Rostislav chest-first, and with the force and bulk of 17.2 hands of power shove him away from his precious egg. Bully him to the side.

Show him the beauty of the goddamned anarchy.

We make the choices we feel we must, and you'll be at the receiving end of that, you bastard.