Soulless eyes watched as the FrostKing neared the other stallion, the words he uttered poured apathetically into the indolent ears of the shadowy brute. His brow raised as the alabaster virile assumed position at the stallion's side, bumping his muzzle against the muzzle of the one he called Deimos. "No." He affirmed distinctly before mutely observing Mauja with a distant, glacial expression. Was the intimacy necessary? Was there something deeper going on between them than what visual perception could comprehend, as in the ultraviolet irradiation in the undulation of magic, wispy and undetectable to the naked eye?

Ambrose flicked his leonine tail apathetically in reception to the unsavory alighting of a horsefly upon his haunches as the obsidian-dappled male pulled away. Despite his most fruitful attempts to conceal his fatigue, it was evidenced in the way his ivory tail hung limp; his ears reigned forward with less intensity; the silent pools of his eyes: the most subtle of signals which most never heed. There is a reason Ambrose is the way he is: glacial, calculating, calloused. Much of it has been molded throughout his questionable past, and he has learned that words are sometimes useless. It's the action of an individual that he pays homage to, for they verbalize more accurately the majority of the time than any phrase or wordage ever could.

Silvern irises began to pinch such, narrowing ever slightly as Mauja began to approach, skeptical of the stallion's intentions. Go stand close to him. Ambrose snorted viciously, but he complied. With each stride closer an ambient weariness arrested his anatomy, each hoof fall executed became a more harrowing endeavor. On the outside, he appeared unaffected. Inwardly, he could sense his muscles straining, his heart beat slackening, his breathing becoming more laborious despite maintaining a chronic interval of rising and falling.

He stood beside him, the irrevocable occurrence of his being drawn toward him as if his soul threatened to emerge from its physical bonds. He rivaled against it, or at least employed a vehement effort. It proved to be inauspicious. After all, how does one contend the overpowering forcefulness of magic? It is impossible. Who told you, of the cause? His mind seethed incoherently, searching for the name he was convinced bristled at the tip of his tongue. His nostrils flexed with each breath, drawn out and steady as it erupted from his body. "Psyche." The name was finally retrieved from its burrow in the concealing confines of his mind.