Does your silence speak the words I hear,
does your reserve mean what I fear?

The balance always shifts when someone new arrives. It was inevitable, as inevitable as rain from heavy clouds, or was death coming after life. There was always something, a guarded look in an eye, a restless flick of the tail, shifting the weight – even no physical reaction was a form of reaction, an exercise in control. And Mauja, he was always watching, those patient, gentle blue eyes drinking in every detail they landed upon. He thought little of it, simply gave them a once-over, ignoring the tiger crunching upon a bird. He didn't even need to touch Irma's soul to know it was not her; he wouldn't insult her by even fearing it was her. She was not one to get caught. She had led him here and spiraled off into the darkness, waiting upon a branch, her touch on his mind her compass. No matter how dark the world, she would always find him.

His stance remained regal, relaxed even, tail flitting against his hocks with its usual swish-swash sound. He knew well the small surge of bitterness at competition, how it irked to have someone else show up and try to whisk away your target, and his myriad encounters among these trees had left him with some sort of respect for the other recruiters. He did not enjoy beating about the bush and wasting both theirs and his time by not being to the point; questions he did not mind answering at all, but why not be honest about why you were here, pouncing everyone? Because the truth was, you wanted them, body and heart and and mind, and you wanted them in your herd, or band, and you wanted them before someone else had the chance to claim them. This was the marketplace of Helovia, and while the goods made the decisions for themselves, they were being bought with words. Mauja did not find it strange, nor shy away from it, but listened with a familiar, dull ache to her descriptions of the Edge. It was his, by right.. but here he was, stranded. He refrained from sighing, refrained from throwing a humorless grimace at the titles they had chosen. Dragonheart. Gentleheart. And here stood the Frostheart. All the hearts! He didn't even have one!

He couldn't recall the decision of calling himself Frostheart anymore, and wondered if it had ever been his.

And.. it was not what he had expected. Names? She wanted names? What did it matter what name Mauja bore? Wasn't it more important to peer at his shaded face, remember the cast of his body and its color? A name could be changed at a whim, yet it seemed so important to her. He gave a slight shrug of his snowy shoulders. "I would not have expected my name to make a difference when you judge my herd," he said, quietly. "But perhaps you think us savages for not adhering to courtesy." A slight grin, as if shy of breaking out in the darkness, curled his lips. "Or perhaps the darkness ate the last of decency. I am Mauja." He inclined his head in the darkness, feeling the rustle of wings – hearing it, too. Irma swept out of her tree like snow blown from a branch, caught herself upon his withers and rested there, folding her wings tight. Attention went to the tiger, and Irma sent her disapproval of it; it was a predator, an unknown, a youth, finding game on her territory. Gently, he reminded her Helovia was not hers. Sourly, she disagreed, and he smiled absently.