It had been years—literal years—since he had done this. Probably.. oh, uh, while he was living in the Throat? He had a vague memory of attempting to do some recruiting to gain more favor with Sumati, but it had ended up with him knocking two horses unconscious instead.

Diplomatic lead. He snorted to himself, ears pressing flat against his neck for a moment as the first drops of rain fell on his head. Mauja was about as diplomatic as a glacier, which is to say, not at all. He gave nothing, but saw fit to slowly, slowly try to roll over you and absorb you and crush all your dreams.

"Depressing," he muttered to himself. That was King Mauja, maybe, the King he'd told Elding had died anyway—he was supposed to be Queen Mauja now, snow-soft and light and a delight and.. and.. the one to clean up the messes when Torleik fucked up, right?

Not that he thought Torleik would fuck up, but traditionally, the military lead accidentally bruised someone's jaw, and the diplomat came shuffling over to rub a soothing balm on it. Now, though, it was more like a hydra; somebody touch his King and he'd just grow a few more heads and bite their asses. And he would bite them hard.

Not very.. soft. Or diplomatic.

But point is, once upon a time, Mauja had practically lived in the Threshold. Once upon a time, he had convinced the Chancellor of the Throat that he was an enigmatic outcast, and been invited. It meant that if he could just be arsed, he could come off as.. sane. Calm. Inviting. He didn't want life's hardships to clap him in irons and sink him in his own misery, but sometimes it was pretty damn hard to swim.

The only way he had, though, was forward, to press on against the blood-bricked road and hope that some day, he would reach that dawn he saw touching the horizon with the faintest shades of cold, light blue and peachy rose. So he grit his teeth, calmed his heart, and went into the clearing, colored a rather unbecoming shade of gray by the patient rain.

"I second that," he said as he strode onto the scene, just barely shorter than the sturdy newcomer; he smelled of foreign places, and the cute golden mare smelled of.. the north? Oops. Basin alert, anyone? He nodded to them both, settled at a distance that was neither too cautious nor too in-your-face (he hoped), and Diego came out of the woodwork to settle on his ass. He still did that, even when Irma wasn't nearby. Old habits died hard, Mauja guessed, wishing he could swallow his own pulse. He'd done this a hundred times before. He had nothing to fear. He was.. he was Mauja. Just Mauja. There were no more games, no more playing, just shorter fuses. No Frostheart because he was fucking tired of that.

"I am Mauja," he went on, fascinated by how similar the two unicorns were—if you only added a few black dashes on the mare's body, why, they'd practically be cousins... "Of the World's Edge. And you?" His pale gaze danced between both of them, because he asked both of them.

[ @[Rexanna], @[Tembovu] -- he might be a tad "AAH?!" at getting back into recruiting/being a leader again, but he doesn't really show any of it visually :) ]

lord, the demands you're making-
help the monster on two feet
walk him down the hall, repeat
and when he's strong enough to stand alone
you'll notice what big teeth . . .