Outside, on the horizon, the sun bled to death in the west and the shadows of mourning clambered in from the east. Within, the darkness deepened. And on the border a white ghost hesitated, drinking in the last rays of sunlight before giving in to the realm of night. And yet he waited, among small, sparse trees with the lavender meadow at his back, head turned out across it. One by one the stars flickered into life, distant and many, brilliant and myriad, dwarfed only as the heavy moon climbed into the sky. Soothing darkness seemed to flock itself around him, as if he took a little piece of the night with him where he stood, and with each passing heartbeat his pupils silvered and color dried from his blue irises. The moon had risen, and this night as all others, gripped his soul.

Mauja didn't know how long he'd stood there, suspended between what felt like life and undeath. Heaving a small sigh the alabaster stallion flicked his white tail, and turned aside from the open expanse. One frosted hoof led the way, followed by the next, leaving a quickly-melting trail in the mild summer night. Winter did not breathe a reminder down his neck this far south, and it saddened him slightly to be cradled only by the warm darkness.

The trees grew thicker around him, older, sturdier, scarred. He'd not often ventured into the Deep Forest, and the one time he had, he had met two mares, neither quite normal. One guarded, and one insane. That time he'd been lucky enough to find his way to the red pool by the ancient fir, but he knew that it lay deep, much deeper than he was now. Ferns and bracken stood silent vigil in shadows, tangled branches blocking some paths, desolation and sorrow hanging heavy in the air. He was not sure why he had come here tonight, or what he wanted — certainly not to be weighed with more problems and the world's mourning, yet he found it nearly impossible to evade the heaviness of the air. Where his eyes traveled, the trees bore scars, testament to some ancient power which had once resided here — but the question was, was it a power of god-like nature, or the lingering traces of a powerful, but ultimately mortal, cult? He had tried to ask the insane one, but she had offered him no insight, left him thirsting for the water he would never drink. Alone in the darkness, hidden in shadow but painted bright where moon beams filtered down through leaves, Mauja drifted up to one of the trees, and brushed his velvet muzzle against its rough bark.

Wounds and scars.

Osiris! <3