You're busy dying if you're living in the past

A rare sight he had become, but the Weaver knew that there was much he had missed out on since the end of the darkness that had hung over Helovia for months. The Dark Empress was gone, he knew, but he didn't know the details as to why the twisted mare had handed down her crown. The fact that she was no longer the Basin's ruler was a difficult one for Crowley to accept, for he had always been rather fond of the Crux and her cynical ways. Without her, who else would be there to toy with any prisoners, be they horned or otherwise? The suddenness in which Psyche had left the Basin worried Crowley, but without a clue of where she had wandered off to, he knew it would only be a waste of time to try tracking her down. After all, maybe she didn't want to be found...

Where Crowley would oftentimes opt to remain in his favored cavern like an old and fabled Sage, today was different. Boredom had set in tenfold, and with Talbot out on a hunt, the brindle was alone and feeling unusually restless. There was much he could do, ranging from heading south to hornless territory to have a spot of entertainment, to simply toting himself around the Basin and reacquainting himself with those who might have started to think him dead. In the end, he decided on the first, and without a second thought he left the warm cave behind and set a course for the narrow path that led out of his tundra home, the tendrils of pure darkness that had taken to him trailing behind and dripping off of him as he went.

Orangemoon had taken reign of Helovia, but it was hardly noticeable in the Steppe. Having called it home for nearly two years now, Crowley and the rest were used to the harsh conditions unlike those that lived in the lower parts of the land. As he descended from the mountain that gave his home its name, the Weaver couldn't help but take notice to a peculiar aroma on the wind. It was thick and familiar during this time of the year, and it managed to wrap itself around his brain, amongst other things; and within a few seconds of standing still and analyzing it, his instinct had his feet moving more quickly down the face of the mountain.

Relying more on scent than anything else, Crowley followed the smell. In his mind, a little voice screamed at him for giving in and following after it in the first place, but there was no helping it. It wasn't until he was well away from the Basin that he finally spied the one responsible for stirring his senses so, a pale figure almost lost against the snowy landscape stretched out before them. At realizing just who it was, well... there was a strange unsettling in the pit of his belly, for there was no way he could mistake who the owner of those antlers and fairy-tale length mane was.

Keeping quiet, the Weaver allowed the crunch of snow beneath his hooves to be the only thing that alerted the mare to his approach. As he thought back on it, it had been some time since he had last spoken with the Impersonator. Would she remember their past talks, the battle they had fought together, be offended that he had even come? While Crowley had never been one for wedging himself into the lives of another, he had found tremendous joy in Arah's company, even if they didn't seem to have much in common at first. She was a gem in his eye, one he yearned call his own, greedy as it may have sounded. He regretted his recent hermit nature for the lack of her company alone.

Coming up on Arah's left, Crowley dropped his head to nip at the doe's flank, but did nothing more until he could properly gauge her reaction to his silent presence.

Walk walk walk.
"Talk talk talk."