How much time had passed since the Grey had successfully invaded the Foothills? How long had it been since Mirage watched from on high, with several others, as those that were left to fight in the wake of abandonment by their own lead struggled against the sheer numbers the Grey marched with. Mirage wondered at how her own kin would survive should she ever be pulled away from them and faced with a similar circumstance - it was something she did not enjoy lingering upon for extended periods of time. They had prevailed while she was captured as a prisoner of the Basin - but only just. Nothing but death could cause her to leave them, and even then, she felt like she would come up with some way to linger and watch over them, care for them still.

When the vaguely familiar scent of Tharos crossed her nostrils she stopped her movement and thought about what she knew of him. It was curious that he should come here - the steed, so swift to mock them for not taking part in the fighting, only to faint in the battle that was only going to be lost by the Foothills, and then proceed to be healed by the Edge's own healer, Torasin. He had spoken some.. Mildly tension-stirring words to not only herself, but Aaron, her Glazier, as well. The mare did not quite know what to think of the stallion. Was he valiant? Honourable? Noble? Just because he was willing to support the 'losing side' of the battle, did not make him these things. Mirage had supported the Foothills, in her own way, a way that would not have jeopardised the alliance between the Edge and the Throat. The healers of the Edge had worked on souls from any herd or calling - it was not their decision to let one die and another survive when all could be saved.

Did he understand that? Respect that?

Respect was something he apparently was lacking. Remembering the tense circumstances that they had met on that fateful day, and even now, she considered the fact that he had simply crossed the borders without waiting for an escort, and was summoning someone to him… She wondered if he was simply a physical being, with too much energy put into increasing the size of his muscles rather than the size of his brain. She only had these actions to judge him by, these snippets of interactions that gave her the initial impression of a stallion probably capable of handling himself in battle and life's simpler pleasures, but not necessarily one who dealt with delicate politics of herd life - like simply waiting at the borders.

"You rang?" Dulcet tones murmured from nearby, as the mare, who had been wandering with her shimmering, image-distorting cloak upon her dropped the flow of magic, and stood before him as an averagely small, unassuming shadowy mare. Golden eyes peered at him without blinking, without shifting their focus, her expression guarded, clear of most any emotion and thought - merely passively watching him, reading him, awaiting his response.