but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams

Step by step, the buzz inside his skull died out. Each shivering breath of frigid air calmed the fire raging beneath his snowy coat.

It was not clarity that came with this distance, but peace. The constant too-fast pace of his heart settled into something more normal (—healthy), and the interval between each smoky lungful of air expelled through his nose lengthened.

The discordant, ever-present shrieking in the back of his mind had grown quiet, overpowered by the simplicity of the sound of shuffling snow. And Helovia had fallen away behind him; the Edge was beyond the horizon, and the vast expanse of the Thistle Meadow laid behind him, covered in snow which should not have fallen, but yet had. In the west, the sun drew its last, gulping breath and disappeared in a burst of red and purple; in the east, the first stars shone like pinpricks of light against the darkening backdrop of a strange winter-spring sky.

Ahead of him lay the isthmus connecting north and south; he was near its western edge, and the murky, icy sea lapped against a frozen shore. Warily, Mauja turned his head.

There were ghosts on both sides. No matter if he went forward, or back, he was haunted.

But with the owls soaring above him, Irma glittering like crystals in the moonlight, the pull of the winter won out: Mauja turned his gaze from the distant, white cliffs of the Edge, barely visible now that he had come back to the shore, and set them upon the northern horizon. Far, far away lay the Basin; he had not intention of going there tonight. But just a little further.. to see the splendor of the northlands awash in the moon's glow again, to dance across the vast, unbroken expanse of snow, a ghost in his own right...

The snow parted easily where his forelegs swept, and his long tail dragged across its pristine surface. A sunny day had formed an icy crust, and the faint sound it broke with rang like a forgotten lullaby in his mind.

(This, is home—)

So he continued into the night, moving along with ease and grace, straight as an arrow headed north. Hours passed, the stars wheeled and shifted, and for a long, long time he was blessedly alone. White breath smoked out of dark nostrils, and a cutting night wind tore at his long forelock, throwing it into his eyes.

But then, he was not alone anymore. On the horizon a speck grew. The owls, having rested upon his spine and left their little black pinpricks of blood, took wing again, speeding ahead of him. And somewhere, what they saw was so achingly familiar—dulled in the moonlight, but the coat was a vivid blood bay, and he bore the same narrow features.

But white socks marred two of his charcoal legs, and no dog tracks had followed him.

For all their similarity, it was not d'Artagnan, and with that pain throbbing in time with his pulse Mauja still approached. His trot had slowed to a jog, eventually to a walk, and then a halt next to the silent stranger. Slowly, he canted his head to the side, blue eyes shimmering in the moonlight.

"Lovely night, no?" he said softly.

[ Sorry for the wait, @Roux <3 And Mauja is wearing d'Art's bags and the crystal staff (under the leather straps and resting across his back), just didn't find a way to fit it into the post. ^^ ]

man, I ain't changed, but I know I ain't the same