Pale early morning sunlight sparkled off the sparse mist, each water droplet shimmering like a crystal suspended in the air. The sounds of breaking waves and sea gulls rolled in from the sea, carried by a briny gust of wind - things looked and smelled of home, of how they used to be, ought to be, but the Sun's wrathful destruction still marred the face of the forest. Mauja had no set goal in mind that morning as he drifted through his trees, once more alabaster in color after a midnight bath in the sea. Mist swirled around his legs, cloaking the movements of his hooves, dew settling on the grass and on him, too, settling on his cannons. Summer still reigned with a harsh sun that was slipping above the horizon for another day of torment, but the nights were cooler than they had been in a long time, carrying whispers of what was to come - leaves that would turn the colors of flame, crisp nights and mornings with frost. In the winter, the fog still clouded his lands, settling upon the skin and freezing. It was with wistful longing that his mind touched the turning of seasons.

Sunlight shimmered off the droplets of two bodies, one a familiar black-bronzed - the other, unknown, a stranger among the charred trees. He was the color of deep, wet sand, but when the sun struck the water clinging to his hairs he seemed more red. It was beautiful, and the wraith-like King drew to a halt, just on the outskirts of the meeting. He hadn't seen Ulrik in a while, but didn't blame the mechanic for seeking respite from the heat someplace else. As usual, the monarch's eyes were drawn to the mechanical wolf following the stallion around, a thin smile on his face. He'd not seen the thing in action yet, but wondered what it would be capable of in battle.. what other things he could build, and what they could do. Ulrik was a brutally honest stallion, something Mauja appreciated; when he himself felt lost on the sea of politics, Ulrik was always there to kick him in the head when he erred. It was a comfort, to know that the engineer would not allow him to stray - not that Mauja ever could forget the glory of his race, the passionate arrogance, but sometimes it hid itself so deep in his marble heart he wondered where it was, who he was, what the purpose of everything was. In those times, Ulrik was his moral compass, his touchstone, although if the stallion knew his value or not was a mystery to Mauja.

His gaze switched to the stranger, a stallion - strangely enough, he carried faint traces of Seiren and d'Artagnan on him, as if he'd been in their presence. He smelled of foreign things, salt and water reminiscent of the ocean, of the Threshold forest so many crossed. Had his loyal followers greeted him, but not brought him home? In the next moment, the stallion admitted to coming from an ocean, born and raised on hot sands. Mauja slid from his place among the trees, casting wary eyes around. It wouldn't surprise him if Seiren still lurked in the shadows; she was a tricky mare, everything of stealth, darkness and blood-stained glory pressed into a single graceful body. If only she could stop eying d'Artagnan like he was either a very tasty meal or a piece of trash...

"Ulrik," he said by way of greeting, nodding to the tall bronze horse. They were nearly of equal height, but Mauja had an inch or so on him. With them both being grown stallions in their prime, it was unlikely it'd ever change. Snow-pale and elegant, he turned to the stranger, something curious, warm, in his pale blue eyes. "Welcome, sand stranger. What is your business here?" A wording that could've been accusing, suspicious, but a voice that was open, inquisitive; he often did that, speaking words that without the proper inflection would be rude, perhaps even dismissive.