"Rán," slipped from Aurelius' velvet muzzle, a simple yet pretty name to swirl around their ears, yet carrying a certain tinge of watery sorrow to it - something to match her eyes. It was a liquid name, soft, yet able to be hard and cold when it needed to be. A moment later Rán herself chimed in, agreeing to his game, but Lena slipped off and he frowned after her - had he done something wrong? Cautiously he stepped aside from his position next to the blue roan, never for a moment noticing if anything was off with Aurelius. Mauja had no such interesting in the lithe mare. His herd felt more like his offspring than potential love interests. "Rán is a name far prettier than any I can think of. It suits you," he said in a mild, gentle voice, a streak of concern evident in him - concern, for Lena. Still, he let his eyes dance to Aurelius, giving him a wry sort of glance. He wasn't about to ruin the moment by give Rán a depressing name, but simply nodded when the short stallion apologized on behalf of his herd. Well, they were like that these days - a night court of daytime ghosts, and even at night some of them strayed far and wide. Mauja himself did, so he could hardly call anyone out on it.

Lena came back, carrying two simple, pretty flowers, both cerulean. A few cinders clung to them, testament to their under-ash life. With quiet interest and fascination Mauja watched as she braided them into Rán's dark mane, like drops of the summer sky. They spoke, imparting little words of wisdom, and he found himself wondering, again, who they were - who they'd been. He knew of Aurelius' past, a rather dark and sad tale, yet he lived his life with strength, finding power in his virtues and caring not for his flaws. He was a gem that had polished itself, smoothing out its rough edges and glowing from within even when the world piled dust upon it. Lena, she spoke of nicknames as if she knew something about it, some deep secret that lay at the heart of her misery-lined joy. And Rán... "And sometimes the world opens a heart that was closed," he interjected in a musing voice, not sure what he was saying, or why. Mauja himself was both: he had a heart of white marble laced with black, so open to everything, and yet so cold, so closed. His mind was the same, stuck in a narrow corridor of passionate racism, yet so curious and friendly when meeting others.

He cocked his head to the side, tangled forelock sliding off his broad forehead. "But it feels like this discussion will lead somewhere where only heavy hearts reside. Come, let us go deeper, where the destruction is not so evident," he commanded, yet it was veiled in softness and warmth. If they wished to remain on the borders, it was their decision, but he had no intention of standing around here all day. With a swish of his tail he stepped over and around broken, brittle branches, weaving through charred trunks. He truly was a ghost within his own home - his ruined home, his haunt. A mirthless smile drifted across his face for a moment, but then it disappeared - he doubted anyone had seen it. "Where are you from, Rán, and Lena?" And the customary interrogation of one's past began... Mauja seldom let newcomers slip in without learning something of their past, of their former culture - of their heart, if it beat with the strong blood of a supremacist, or weak tolerance.