And why he was there, that was a question he had no means of answering.

Habit? Boredom? Restlessness? Frustration? Drunk on his own misery? Whatever the case, Mauja had ambled across half of Helovia again, and to everyone but himself it was obvious where he was going: the Threshold. All he had thought was, 'I need to get away', and when he had abandoned the mists of the Edge, years spent wandering the path between these two places had steered him in that direction. Long legs had eaten up the distance as the sun warmed his back, and the owls alternated between gliding on the winds or riding upon the crystal staff laying along his spine. He had grown used to its presence, tucked firmly beneath the leather straps of the satchel he wore.

He hadn't wanted to keep wearing the leather bag—it was a constant reminder of who it had belonged to, of the one who had left him behind. But between wearing it and carrying the staff around in his mouth .. practicality won out, and now, it almost felt comforting. It was like carrying a little bit of d'Artagnan around with him, though he sincerely hoped he wouldn't start talking to the bag.

And on the subject of talking: “Hei vandrer!”

Mauja stopped dead in his tracks. There was an aching familiarity nestled in the words, in the lilt and the cadence of the voice, though he didn't have the slightest clue what it meant (—no, screw that; his mother-tongue brain didn't have a single clue what it meant, but his Helovian mind whispered 'wanderer'). Hooked, and with Irma sitting on the staff and Diego off somewhere else, Mauja headed towards the source of the voice at a speedy walk.

And what he found was .. not what he had expected to find. The one talking was a tiny, tiny pony, looking even tinier next to a huge, bulky stallion who topped even Tembovu in height. Mauja's head canted to one side, and his long forelock slid off the side of his face. Some days in the Threshold were just peculiar.

The little mare kept talking in that bittersweet language of hers, and Mauja's dark-rimmed ears had swept forward to drink it all in. He couldn't precisely understand what she said, but .. but he understood enough. It was like that snow leopard spirit which had blessed him so long ago; she had spoken a similar tongue. His blue gaze settled on the fjord pony. "Ég held ekki að hann skilur þig," he said, pleased and not entirely sure why. (Maybe because the darkness is held at bay, for now.) "Welcome to Helovia, both of you. I am Mauja."

[ /crashes party, hover on text for translation ]

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 . . .