Like a shadow, a whisper, a wind of darkness, Psyche lunged in, their pair of them driving for the lifeblood of the golden girl, punishment for her transgressions — but lithe and agile, she slipped from his grasp, meeting instead the same sticky end at the point of Psyche's gnarled horn. Droplets of red cascaded out of her body, like a golden dress ripped to reveal what lay beneath, but he had a hard time seeing it as the early sunlight glistened upon the lady's horn. Angora somehow stumbled past, falling to her knees in the snow, and for a moment Mauja was inclined to just stand there and watch her crawl for freedom. Pitiful, truly. As Mauja prowled closer, he body grew still, and he felt contempt, disgust, overpower the insane need to hunt for her blood. "Why did you take Arah?" he demanded in winter's voice as he stood beside her downed form, by her shoulder, peering down at her with blazing blue eyes. He had no desire to be kicked by her, and stood by her back.

He felt detached, disconnected, as if he was not truly there despite the fact that it was his white body standing there, his voice speaking words; was this who he was, the monster beneath the ice, the spirit lurking behind facades of marble and smiles? Slow, glacial, he raised one front hoof and sought to place it upon the still plane of her shoulder, and should she not move he would lean upon it, slowly force his weight upon her before placing the other frosted foot beside its kin. Leaning over her all the same he looked down upon her face, her slicked ears, set jaw; what a proud, feisty fool.

"Hundkvikindi." The word slid easily off his tongue, familiar to him, but not to the world; this was not Mauja the Snow-warm, the soft stallion who had the pale winter sun within his soul — this was Mauja the Beast, a creature made of darkness, with liquid ice for blood. He knew both sides so well, but never knew which one lurked at the utmost center of his soul, and his lips peeled back in a horse's snarl. How would it feel, to be a wolf, and hunt with fangs? To sink sharp points into the flesh of his enemies, and drink their blood instead of merely break their bones? To rip, to tear, instead of crush? Much like something behemoth, something slow but dangerous, he raised his head to peer at the shadow-lady, blinking his eyes slowly. "Should we call others?"

For in all honesty, I wish to run away.

Mauja Frosthjärta