Frosted feet carried the restless beast away, the trail of his wandering invisible against the thin cover of new snow: his breath didn't quite steam into the air, the snow didn't lie quite as thick and soft, and the nights seemed both darker, and brighter. Brighter, for the sun didn't lay quite as far below the horizon, but darker, because there was less snow and fewer stars to light it up — and no colored lights to wash across the sky.

Now that any of that mattered now, though; the sun had risen behind a dismal cover of gray, flakes of snow gently falling from the overcast sky. Like old friends they settled across his haunches, stuck to his mane, only to fall to the ground each time he shook himself. In many ways, it was a reminder of home, the way things ought to be, and in other ways, it simply.. was, a state of being that carried neither positive nor negative energy. Simply, a state of being.

As he passed into the deep forest, the world grew darker. Ancient trees pressed in on him, the tangled undergrowth poking up through the thin cover of snow. Bare trees mingled with pines, and despite the lack of leaves they still did their best to blot out the gray sky and steal all the snow — he felt weaker, more vulnerable, among the trees. Crisp and fallen leaves crunched underhoof, but his mind was elsewhere, remembering a pack of wolves and their huge leader, the beast which had pounded him to the floor. A moment of such uncharacteristic weakness, at the mercy of a predator beast, yet he had escaped unscathed, but he was warier now, warier of what this dark forest held. He might not be so lucky the second time.

It wasn't what he had expected, then, as he thought to be more alert — yet there he was, spying an anomaly with his eye, hearing it with his ear, before the scent hit him. Instantly, Mauja ground to a halt, his cautious senses straining to discern what it was.

Wings rustled, and Irma passed their location: the picture of a gilded stallion, equine, splotched with white and a brown dragon, entered his mind. And he realized, that he knew who it was. Torasin, the foolish, golden preacher. Did he still wear that scar, the "S" Cineviam had carved into his haunch? Such a clever, wicked thing, remnant of another era — his anger had been hot in his gut, controlled and doled out in just enough to neither make it uncomfortable nor frustrating. Now, he just felt pity, and hated himself for it.

He wasn't sure why he drew closer — shouldn't he have walked away, and left the man be? Shouldn't he have simply ignored the weakness festering inside, and gone some other direction? Yet he didn't. Step by step he drew closer, a pale ghost in a forest of darkness, a sliver of light; his forelock fell across his eyes, veiling the world, and he made no attempt to mask his approach.

"Torasin," he finally said, half-loud.