The silence continued, moving past what could reasonably be considered companionable and into well-this-is-awkward territory. But the spotted man's lack of any sort of explanation spoke volumes to Nyx - the silence was deafening. "I'll take that as a yes," she said, quirking an elegant brow. She wondered how often his pale fur had turned red, how often his horn had torn into a throat or a heart. She wondered if he had torn mothers from foals, brothers from sisters; if he showed mercy to children or sent them the same way as their horned kinsmen. She thought of families torn apart, herds ripped to pieces, all because of a spiralling piece of bone. "Why?" she asked. Oh, she was pushing her luck now; she did not want to provoke him, but she had to know for her own peace of mind. She was beginning to think there was something wrong with her because she lacked the murderous instincts of the two stallions. Her only kills had been in self-defence, and all had left her plagued with guilt for days and weeks afterwards - she could not imagine seeking the sensation out. "I'm not one to judge, but I find myself curious as to why you think a horn makes one superior." Her voice was level, body language neutral; she didn't want him to feel like she was targeting him or scolding him. He was merely the source of the answers she had craved for years, an example of a phenomenon he had never understood.

Likely the same way Mauja and d'Artagnan lived with themselves after murdering somebody for being different. By switching it off and hiding behind a wall of stony indifference.

Nyx could never live like that. She was not an emotional creature, and hid her soul behind carefully erected walls of iron, but she was unable to remove the haggling feeling of guilt whenever she did something wrong. When she said something she regretted in an argument, she would apologise afterwards. When she got a bit carried away during a spar and caused more damage than intended, she beat herself up about it for days and weeks following. And when she killed, she loathed herself; allowed herself to be devoured with guilt and entered a deep depression that lasted until she could smother her emotions and get on with life. But she readily accepted others weren't like that - they could kill without a second thought, without ever thinking twice. They did not need a reason, or used racism as reason enough; whether Nyx was weaker or stronger than these individuals, she could never quite decide.

Then he spoke, and the soldier was jerked from her own reverie. I don't. She kept her expression stoic, hoping her silence would coax more of an explanation from him. She was astonished as he admitted himself that his racism was blind and irrational, but that he did it anyway, and the silver mare was quiet for quite a few moments as she processed that new information. "A crime of passion," she murmured, more to herself than to him. Perhaps she shouldn't have called it a crime, but that was what it was to her. Cold blooded murder, without rhyme or reason. "I came from a land where racism was in the blood of everybody who lived there. It seemed like every day there was a new war - wing against horn, horn against dragon. I never understood why." She had no idea why she was saying that, but the words fell from her unbidden. She was near enough admitting that she disagreed with racism - as if it wasn't blindingly obvious already - and knew such a comment could endanger her, but for now she decided honesty was the best policy. Her eyes, which had shifted to gaze off into the middle distance, returned to the stallion, curiosity still rife in their pupils. "When was the last time?" You murdered someone for being hornless? Oh, she was really pushing it now, like teasing a hungry wolf - but she knew she was unlikely to get honesty from Mauja ever again should they meet, and was keen to seize her advantage.

Her ears hungrily honed forwards on his words, devouring them. Power. Ah, yes, she should have known. There was something hardwired in stallion's minds that made them seek dominance over their peers; whether it be besting another male in battle or savouring a woman's submission beneath them, they could not stop fighting their way up the power ladder from birth until death. She had seen colts still at foot testing their skills on one another, and haggard old warriors with greying manes taking their last breath on the battlefield. She could only imagine the thrill Mauja and his kin must gain from watching a life sap away beneath his hooves, by the strength of his horn - to hold the power of life and death over another individual was a heady sensation, one Nyx did not actively seek but knew others craved like a drug. She could feel understanding creeping over her like a disease, each word from the spotted man's mouth clearing more of the fog inside her head. She did not respond to his words, simply jerked her skull to show she had heard, and mulled over them in her head. He had certainly given her food for thought, and she knew she would deconstruct this conversation in minor detail the moment she was alone.

His gaze met hers, but she could hold it for mere moments before feeling obliged to drop it to his hooves. He asked for clarification on her question, and she felt an involuntary shudder rocket through her. This was her chance to come up with some bullshit question that wasn't what she really wanted to know and take her leave while she still had the option, but she couldn't. She had to know the answer, no matter what it cost her. Her eyes lifted, snapping back to his and holding it as level as she could. "Killed someone," she said, voice unwavering.

For now.

He continued, and the soldier listened in stoic silence. "I believe you. Isn't every soldier fighting for peace?" she asked, rhetorical; her razor-quick mind fed her mouth with words before she even had time to judge if she wanted to say them. That often happened to her, leading to her reknowned lack of tact and knack of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. But peace was a funny word - everybody said they craved it, yet even when they had it they were just a stone's throw away from another war. No sentient race could ever be truly at peace, as there was always going to be conflict over territory, resources, mates. With her species, though, the largest battles seemed to arise from the most petty - in her opinion - things; a shard of bone on one's head, or lack of. How could such a war ever be resolved? Short of eradicating everything without a horn - genocide that did not even bear thinking about - there was always going to be another skirmish, another equine or pegasus in the wrong place at the wrong time. There would always be lives to lose, as long as there were racial differences in the world. It was a miserable outlook, one Nyx tended not to think about, but which had been driven to the fore by her intellectual conversation with Mauja.

"What of the children? Have you ever aimed your horn at a foal?" She was getting deeper and deeper into shark-infested waters, pressing harder and harder until something had to give, and her urge to bolt was rising by the second. But still the car crash happened in front of her, blood and death flying everywhere, and she still couldn't tear herself away.

His head jerked to look at her, and she stood her ground despite the inward flinch she gave as she expected to feel the sharp nip of his teeth in her flesh. That was how she had learnt she was pushing too hard - a bite or kick, a clear warning to back off. But nothing came. She could not tell from his expression what was going through his head, whether he was amused or annoyed at her insistence on asking about every caveat of his lifestyle. You're morbidly curious for a good girl. She couldn't help but chortle. "Whoever said I was a good girl?" she asked, one grey eyelid dipping in what could only be described as a wink. Perhaps on another mare it could have been considered flirtatious, but Nyx was about as sultry as a mossy rock. As for his impression of her as a good girl...well, she could understand his reasoning. She had flown into his life like a blast of wind, her initial fear of Aramis evident; the fact she had followed that up with thinly-veiled disgust at his murderous lifestyle would certainly have given him the impression that she was one of the good ones. Perhaps that was true - she certainly didn't run around killing anything that looked at her twice, or anything that looked different from her. Yet she was no stranger to battle, no stranger to bloodshed; could any beast who considered themselves to be wholly good ever be a warrior? Surely their desire not to hurt would overwhelm their desire to protect? The iron woman truly had no idea where she sat on the alignment spectrum, as it entirely depended on the circumstance. But she was not a virginal, naiive child; she had lived, and she had suffered. 'Good girl' might be pushing it - 'semi-decent girl who can sometimes do the wrong thing for the right reasons' would be far more apt, if a bit of a mouthful.

He followed his comment up with a question, and a shift of his body to look at her head-on; she could not hold his gaze for long, and lowered her muscular neck to stare at the ground beneath his feet instead. "I don't know," she said truthfully - he had been honest with her (or so she assumed), so she owed him the same courtesy. "I've known a few racists in my life, but have never been in a position to ask them their motives. I fancy myself as a woman of action, a woman who can be useful to the Edge, yet I know the biggest enemy I will face here is racism, and I can't stop myself trying to find out the reasoning behind it." Know thy enemy, and all that. Not that she ever hoped or assumed she would be on the opposing side of a battle to Mauja; quite the contrary. She fidgeted, looking into the middle distance; perhaps his question was a hint for her to leave, and stop interrogating him. "Maybe I should go," she said - a clear out for him. If he wanted her to go, he could stay silent. And if he was willing to answer her questions...then he could say as much, and the mare with the curse of curiosity would be only too happy to listen. The balls were completely in his court.

If she had learnt anything from this conversation, it was that she most certainly didn't understand him.

Again her gaze wandered away from his face, to stare at a rock behind him. Her dislike of eye contact had existed for as long as she could remember - when she was blind, she had no choice where her eyes wandered, as they simply followed her thoughts. Once she gained her sight back, however, she felt it rude to stare at someone, to drink in the contours of their face simply because she had spent the first months of her life unable to do just that. Since then her strange habit had evolved, especially when she grew more used to predators and the fact they stared before they went in for the kill. To lower her eyes was a subtle gesture of submission, to show she was not a threat - nowadays she didn't even realise she was doing it, nor that it could have the opposite effect and appear rude rather than pacifying. Only if you want to, he said. Well, he wasn't chasing her away, that was for certain. That was promising.

He spoke again, and she listened with the attentiveness of a curious child - which could be precisely what she was. What he said was interesting, and she found herself mulling it over eagerly. It sounded almost as though using racial differences as a reason to kill was just an excuse, a justification, a reason to create bonds with other like-minded inviduals. In a sick, twisted way, it made sense. His use of them did not go unnoticed, and her brow lifted a fraction before returning to its usual position. She took it to mean that he no longer considered himself among the super-racists like she had first thought - perhaps he was outgrowing the dated notion that possession of a horn meant superiority. "That, I agree with. I prefer to say 'misguided' rather than evil." It all depended on the circumstance, as with her little protecting-a-vulnerable-foal analogy earlier.

This time when her gaze lifted from the rock to meet his, she attempted to hold it. "I do appreciate you answering my questions, though. You must want to tell me to piss off and leave you alone." She released a self-mocking snort. But, after all the questions he had answered, she couldn't help but think of the one he hadn't - the question about killing a child. It hung between them, unanswered, but she simply did not dare ask it again. Once could be put down to morbid curiosity - twice was just pushy.

His question caused a small chortle to escape her lips, one sardonic brow lifting in subtle amusement. "And you're only noticing that now?" She had been on the precipice of a nervous breakdown since she first saw Aramis standing in her path like some macabre demon come to lead her to her doom; it had faded slighly now, but her heart still fluttered like a caged butterfly. His tones were those of inky darkness wrapped around a playful soul; ordinarily she would have responded with a witty rebuke of her own, but she was all out of those for the day. He seemed to swell up like a blossoming rose, looming over her in a way she would have considered terrifying an hour ago, but now she took as more...testing. "Maybe I'll take matters into my own hands, then," she said with a playful wink of her own. Better to leave on her own terms than be driven away by the teeth and hooves of a stallion she had pushed that little bit too far.

She began to turn, tail tangling around her hocks as she cast a nod over her shoulder at the spotted man. "Goodbye, Mauja," she said; she doubted this would be the last time they met, and knew that next time she was far less likely to be so bold. Her final question had gone unanswered, but perhaps it was better that way - she did not want the answer to tarnish her impression of the ice king.