The world was falling dark again, and the Edge King had taken himself the time for another "training session" with his pet stallion. Dýr was a curious creature, one that kept Mauja's mind occupied at odd times - he was like nothing else the glacial monarch had ever come across, and the temptation of learning all his secrets was simply too great. What he knew so far, was that his word was law: he was Master to Dýr, and it was with a mix of apprehension and excitement that he shouldered the role. He was afraid to walk out too far on thin ice and have it break beneath his hooves - afraid that the pure control he held over the stallion would go to his head, or that he'd misstep in his handling. When he'd brought him home, an incident had been so close to occurring... A myriad of doubts and fears had hit him, but a single no was all it had taken to halt the destructive stallion in his tracks. "Drip drop" was the kill command, and somehow he'd instilled the fact that World's Edge meant friends, and thus no drip drop. It seemed to have worked from afar too, since Mauja hadn't brought Dýr with him wherever he went, and none of his herd mates had been found bloody and beaten while he was gone. It seemed that taking possession of the tengill, the rope, had been what it had taken to solidify his command over the creature, and releasing it hadn't reversed things to how they'd been before. Perhaps it needed to be forcefully taken from him in order for him to lose his role of Master. Mauja wasn't too keen on finding out.

On the whole, he wasn't quite sure what to do with Dýr. The stallion had some base urges, like eating, drinking and sleeping, but apart from that, his main drive seemed to be violence, but there was no pattern to it. He just charged, flailed, no finesse, no tactic, just a barrage of death wishes. In order to be useful, and to not get himself killed the moment war came about, Mauja had to teach Dýr some basic fighting skills, but how? He couldn't use the command drip drop, for fear of becoming the victim and losing the weapon he held in his power. It was a problem that he hadn't yet solved, and felt no nearer solving as he stood there, observing the fiery eyes of his pet. He seemed mostly disinterested in the world, the hellish light of his killing drive dimmed. The tattered tengill lay upon the ground; Mauja was too afraid that putting it across Dýr's back would be like giving him freedom, and besides, it would just fall down again when he moved. It was a pity he kept tripping on it, and that he never learned to mind his feet, but that, too, was a later problem.

A trespasser was a much more immediate problem.

"No drip drop," was the first thing he said, wary of seeing the killing light turned on in his eyes. Mauja sampled the winds, alerted by the interloper's own cry; Foothills. What on earth did one of them want with him now? He growled slightly, before shaking his head. He didn't want Deimos accidentally downing yet another trespasser, so he'd best get there first. Besides, the Conscript ought to be a bit more careful in the future. "Follow," he instructed Dýr, before setting off at a trot. The Gods had done him and his herd a great favor when restoring his forest, as the ground was once more dark and lush, soft, and springs bubbled with clear water. A thin mist crowded the forest floor, swirling around his legs as the stranger came within view. She was a mare, a great deal shorter than Mauja, but only slightly shorter than his pet. Grulla in color, with the characteristic white patches caused by scars - from their uneven pattern, it looked like burns. Upon her haunches crouched an adult blue dragon, watching his forest with wary eyes. Something hardened in Mauja's belly. Dragon. Fire. And why was a Foothills mare here, coming into his home so brazenly? If she had patience enough to call for them, why not just wait at the borders like a decent horse? After the incident with Ophelia and Ktulu, Mauja had vowed to never barge into anyone's home again, unless it was ridiculously urgent business.

"At least you've got enough manners to let us know that you're in our home," he told her flatly from the deepening shadows, slipping into view with the black stallion as his shadow. It was tiring, to have others slip into his home like they belonged there, and then having the guts to argue with his guards when they tried to push them back out again. Mauja's eyes were more tired than angry, but something cold and guarded lay like a shield just behind his lenses, masking more from slipping out. It wasn't for nothing that he was called cold and Frostheart; he wore an icy mask like a second face, but those who were not annoying often experienced his much softer, warmer side. "Who are you? Why are you in my home?"

( Monster after me. ^^ )

night-fate-stock -- dreamofsandman -- deirdre-T -- deviantart.com // i-mi.deviantart.com