en natt så kall och månen den var klar

Curiosity was a strange thing; Mauja was not an overly social animal, and frequently thought that much of his trouble could be avoided if he just kept to himself, and didn't stick his nose into all the business he came across. After all, if he'd never got the stupid idea to approach Torasin, the gilded gentleman wouldn't be dead, would he? Or at least not at the hooves and spikes of Mauja. Perhaps he would've died all the same, just by someone else's hand—perhaps the fates, or Gods, or something else, had decreed that Torasin's time had come, and Mauja had simply been the first proper instrument to come along.

The idea was not pleasant. The notion that he was not in control of his own actions, and his own death, did not sit well with him. He was far too unbound and stubborn, too wild and proud to ever let something rule him so completely. But what if it was so subtle he didn't know it? What if the reasons he traversed this plain of snow towards a distant, dark blob weren't his own, but something fabricated—placed in his mind, to make him think it was his choice? If he wanted to, could he stop, turn away, walk somewhere else? But why should he try, if he thought it was he who, yet again, plodded towards a stranger, just to see who they were?

He would never know. He could never know, because the very nature of "subtle power influencing him without him noticing" demanded he never know—because it wouldn't be something he could trace or figure out. What was the difference between doing what he wanted, and what he thought he wanted?

Mauja shook his head, white mane rattling against a thick neck; the owl chick on his shoulder held on tightly to both hair and skin, leaving red pinpricks like Irma had done so many times before. The only thing which could be honestly said was that he was stupidly curious, never staying away when he should. And besides, the shape he was approaching was dark: there were many dark horses in his life he hadn't seen since the shadows had lifted. It could be Faelene, or Ulrik, maybe even Descaro, or Psyche, Deimos, Huyana, Tamlin.. or someone else entirely. Someone he didn't know. Or Mirage (even though Kahlua had said she was gone). While he wasn't too keen on facing the dragon-bitch, he couldn't deny it would, cynically, be an interesting encounter.

But in the end, it turned out to not be someone he wished to see—nor the opposite. It was someone he'd met once, briefly, a vague face recalled from the long, long darkness, a somewhat fractured mind with a lilting, dream-like speech, words spun from cobwebs and tales. Scars riddled her hide like they riddled his, broken at the seams; lines ran were the hairs grew in different patterns, her hair like ash and dust across dark satin. He hadn't been able to see her properly then, aside from the brightness of her face in the light of the strange trees—but now he saw her, from nose to tail. Formidable, in her own way, vaguely reminiscent of the "old" Psyche, but smaller than him—as most were. A slight smile made the corner of his mouth curl upward.

"Skullface," he greeted her civilly with a flick of his tail, head cocked to the side.

Se dem brinna över verkan se dem dansa framför bål
Se dem mässa inför satan se dem smida sina stål