Memories tugged at his mind, an angry, hurt voice calling out, the sensation of having no breath in the lungs - and no ability to draw one, a constricting on the throat, something blocking the windpipe. Threats. Pure white flecked with blood-red, eyes of crimson, silver and blue; black and white, tipped in red. Mauja's gaze narrowed a fraction, and slowly the King drew in a deep breath just to assure himself that he still could. One of the colts drew himself up, pushing his black spiral horn towards the darkening sky. The one who would gray out, perhaps even grow white. One eye was crimson, one eye was silver, and his dark mane and tail were both dipped in red. Words washed over his ears as his attention turned, again, to the other - more discrete in color, eyes blue, hair tipped in blue. There were too many similarities to ignore, and even though his name tugged at his attention, he kept silent. If there was a link between these two boys and the mares who had so brazenly walked into his home and argued with his warrior, he had to be careful. They came from the Dragon's Throat, and he had no desire to upset Kri nor allow pacifist spies into his home. These didn't smell of the Throat, but the white mare hadn't either - but there was only one way to find out if they were truly connected... Their colorful fringes shouted it to his eyes, but he had to know.

"I am, indeed, Mauja," he murmured, a thoughtful guardedness in his icy eyes. Varath, and Vadim. He didn't know the names of the mares, but they had claimed to be sisters - at least the white one ought to be relative of these two, perhaps the dark one was sister only in name, united by common goal and platonic love. "Tell me, Varath and Vadim, do you have sisters? One who is pure white, mane and tail dipped in red, and one who is a black dun?" Information for information, he could bargain if he wanted to, but would not ignore their queries. Vadim seemed a lot more doubtful of Mauja and the Edge's glory than Varath did, who seemed to be starstruck by some child's fantasy or something. He doubted dishonesty lay in their bones, but if they had siblings in the Throat... Caution was the unsteady pedestal upon which Mauja's kingdom stood, and always he danced upon the knife's edge between peace and war.

"The Edge," he mused quietly, not sure what to tell them. He'd never claimed this place was great or awesome, and idly he wondered who preached such things. "Our land is blessed by the Moon, which I believe is something of greatness. But, ah, great?" Quizzically he arched a 'brow at them. "What makes a place great, truly? Its terrain? Its leaders, or the people within? Or the culture, the way of life?" Mauja gave his head the tiniest of shakes. "Greatness is what you want it to be. It is only great if you believe it to be so, and that makes it a highly individual thing." And he smiled, a small little smile that seemed to say forgive me, for my rambling philosophy.