His ears pricked, twitched, to the low mutter uttered in Ophelia's voice; "I suppose you said the same thing about your hindquarters..." And even though he bristled at the comment, soul for a moment pretending it was a porcupine, he didn't respond. As a matter of fact, he hadn't said that, but first the stealth of d'Artagnan and now the loss of the Edge - and thus the Moon's guidance - had effectively robbed them of their healer. Winter and frost had come to the mainland too, cold killing the plants, putting even traditional remedies out of their reach. He'd sheltered in the Arch to wait the infection out, to prevent his herd from seeing their leader's weakness, and to shield them from his vile temper. Controlled the Ice King usually was, an aptly named Frostheart, but the aftermath of being burned had reduced his fuse to something microscopic in size. A good thing that only the itch of healing remained in his backside, or he probably would've eaten Ophelia and Tor both since they'd spent relatively long in his company by now.

"Of course," he murmured as Tor agreed. He'd not expected anything else, really, though again, for the second time in a short time span, did his soul bristle. What had his herd done to earn a bad reputation? Deimos had nearly killed Ophelia, Alan shouted too much, but otherwise no incident had been reported or uncovered. Hearsay, all of it, mad speculation, attributed to him when the Plague had not really struck anyone down. Still, all he did in reaction to her words was to sigh, as if tired - and tired he was. Of the world, of life, of fighting. Not that'd he'd give up, though...

"Uneasy," he muttered, something like contempt falling from his voice for the first time. "Uneasy only because the last mare to have forged some form of pact with me stabbed me in the back." It hadn't surprised him, really. He hadn't trusted Kri to keep her word, not really, but given her heated reaction when Snö was stolen it had come as somewhat of a surprise that she'd so willingly toss the safety of her herd to the wolves and aid the Qian in an invasion that would not fail in making them enemies. Remorse or not at what she'd done, she couldn't make it undone. In a sense, allowing Tor among his own was a gamble; what if she'd just pretended to heal him, only for his backside to rot and slough off like snow in a few days? Only time would tell and if she turned out to be a betrayer, he'd probably declare that he'd had enough of this world and toss himself in the sea.

"I will," he promised Ophelia, the small smile back on his face after the miniscule outburst. "Once my schedule allows it..." Keeping tabs on his herd was harder out here in the wilds - keeping them safe and fed... Damn it all. Ophelia glided to the mouth of the cave like a stray moonbeam, light upon her cloven feet, and Mauja glanced at Tor for a moment - nothing of disgust in his eyes, only concern. Irma squeezed his scalp with her claws, and with a small shrug he followed after the white and crimson mare. Swaths of blue and green fire reflected upon the pristine surface of the snow, dancing and flickering like flame in the sky among the myriad of stars: he paused beside the young mare again, more space between them than when they'd stood over Tor, but less than if they'd been strangers. His blue eyes soared to the sky, pupils moving to catch every nuance of color and every single shape that hung suspended for a mere moment before changing into something new. Clouds of breath rolled slowly into the frigid dark in front of their face, the rugged wind biting at his face.

Mauja Frosthjärta