Striking mights and maybes even more

A useless thing called life

It's a biting cold again

Days passed, nights passed; the earth kept on turning, not at all disturbed by the political shifts within as small a land as Helovia, when the entire world was a place of turmoil and war. Sometimes he wondered why it was that way, why every land seemed to have a history steeped in blood, and a future as chaotic as a thunderstorm looming on the horizon. Even here, it was that way, though surely he was slightly to blame for it - stirring up the hornet's nest in a land where peace and equality otherwise ruled. The ice wraith sighed, a cloud of white rising from his dark nostrils, and gave his head a gentle shake. He could do nothing about it, except fight for what he believed in here and let the rest of the world fall to ruin. Perhaps one day Helovia would find stability and peace under his rule. If all else failed, he could kill everyone. Then there would be no one to challenge him, no one to stir up trouble. A humorless smile flitted across his face as he paced across the snowy face of the Frostbreath, working to keep his hairless haunches warm. Tor had done wonders healing them and cleansing him of infection, but the hair had yet to grow out.

A call caught his attention, head shooting up as ears swept forth. It was for him, a summons, and he was fairly certain he knew the voice - Faelene, no? On a couple of other occasions the red-haired mare had called for him, and since it'd be terribly rude and counterproductive to ignore her, Mauja altered his path towards the source of the call and set off at an elegant, high-kneed trot. He was used to moving through lands like these, balancing with ease and instinctively flexing to counter any slip. After a few minutes he let out a cry of his own to let her know that he was coming - he, and the owl perched on his shoulder, thick talons digging into his skin and flesh whenever she nearly fell. Not yet fledged as she was, she was forced to ride on him while the feathers and bones of her wings grew, muscles gaining strength as she flapped them daily. She was determined to spend as little time as possible on his shoulder, and he wondered if it was for any dislike of his movement, or just a fierce love for the sky.

When her dark shape broke the horizon of the isthmus, the sea closest to land covered by ice but dark water running beneath it, he saw that she was not alone; something bright stood beside her, gaily colored chestnut. It seemed an odd contrast with such a bright stallion next to Faelene's rather dark body, but they were nearly of a height - he a bit slimmer, perhaps. Mauja towered over them both, as was usual in any meeting. Pristine whit speckled with black he was hard to spot on such a snowy canvas as the Frostbreath, but even so he wasn't trying to hide.

A deep whicker rolled out of his chest, a more personal greeting now that he was close to them. Trot slowed to a walk, warm, dark muzzle extending to brush - gently - against Faelene's. Her wounds were untreated still, and now that he was free from the death stench of his own, it was easier to smell the budding infection in hers. Blue eyes grew concerned - he knew the pain of fire ravaging the hide, drying and cracking, eating away. He knew the pain of moving with it. "Faelene, I have found a healer." He spoke softly, as if afraid to startle her. Pain did strange things to your mind. "You should come see her." Then, he lifted his attention from his dark sister, and onto the stranger. Most of his body was paled with roaning, though he still seemed very bright in the desolate landscape of snow. A white, sturdy horn jutted from his forehead, white covering most of his face too. "Welcome, brother," the dethroned King said, dipping his head in a nod. "I am Mauja."