það var farið að skyggja og fuglarnir þagnaðir Darkness swept in as blood painted the sky from a dying sun. Tall peaks were blocked out as dark shapes against the vermilion sky, outlined in burnished orange, but within the belly of the mountains, in the vale of the unicorns, night had fallen. The shadows had lengthened until they covered all, a uniform blanket, an urging to go to sleep, but Mauja paced the perimeter, restless. Somewhere else Irma hunted, her keen eyes picking out the slightest movement, but she had no real desire to be near his twisting thoughts. He felt like a nest of snakes had taken up permanent residence within his skull, and aside from their constant slithering, they were also too large to fit. It felt like his cranium was about to burst open and he'd keel over someplace and just lie twitching on the ground while everything went up in flames around him.

Good thing reality wasn't as dramatic as his thoughts.

He hadn't been able to shake the feeling of blood spurting onto his face, of feeling it dry and flake off as the bitter northern winds whipped against him — seeing her black body crumble, his horn lodged in her throat, each beat of her dying heart further painting him red. Delinne still lived, though how was beyond him; he'd killed her. In cold blood (in Irma's cold blood, rather). Killed that lying, snake-tongued clone of her, watched the light go out of her blue eyes. Her corpse lay rotting somewhere in the meadow, yet Delinne still roamed the Basin, and Mauja wondered how he'd avoided going mad. Each time he caught scent of the black mare he wanted to bash his head against something until the world made sense again, because right now, it didn't. On long legs Mauja paced the beaten path, frost scraping against the rocky ground and leaving a trail that shimmered with the glow of early stars. How could it have happened? How could he have killed someone who still lived?

Movement caught his attention, regal head snapping up as pale eyes narrowed; someone stood at the mouth of the Basin, white splattered with red (or was it the other way around?), proud of posture. A horn split the sky, and beside him was Zdravilo, dwarfed by his height, and none too pleased by her posture. A thundering, wordless cry rolled out of Mauja's mouth, tail flicking against his hocks as he set off at an elegant trot through the twilight. While this one didn't walk willynilly into the depth of their lands, he'd still breached the pass, and even with a horn on his head it irked Mauja. A few yards away he slowed to a walk, eyes slipping to the melted trail and the burning tiger — a knot of discomfort tightened in his gut, but he didn't let it show. His eyes were always guarded, locking away the emotions, securely guarding his fears and reactions. Someone who burned the snow ought not be here.

"What do you want?" he demanded, gaze sweeping up to the stallion again. He did not wear a familiar face.

[ uuhm what does Theus smell like in his potential form? xD ]
þegar úlfarnir opnaði augu hans í myrkrinu.