He wasn't sure what kept him in the south, aside from fear. It wasn't the weather, and that was for certain, so only the incredibly unflattering truth remained: he was afraid. Afraid of the ones he loved and cared for, afraid to face them and who he was, mark an end to an era and the start of another. Afraid of how they'd treat his absence, the way he'd once more slipped away in the night without a word. And at the same time he knew that each day he didn't seek them out as another day they could berate him for. Psyche would, maybe, be fine with it; she knew he'd gone on a mission, after all, but what did she think when he went dark? When the signs of him ended? Ophelia, they never met quite so often, would she even know he'd been out of Helovia? And Faelene... He'd promised to be there. Promised himself, her, and their child, and what had he done? Not only had he left to infiltrate the Throat, but then he'd just vanished. So much for his promises. So much for him being a father, raising children. No wonder his offspring ran away as soon as they could.

His breath smoked into the cooling dusk air, knees rising higher than they needed to as he batted the crisp, dead grasses aside. They broke easily beneath his weight, leaving a crumpled, messy trail anyone could follow. Such was the curse of the season; Mauja knew very well how to move with stealth, how to leave minimal trails, but right now he wasn't interested in it. His frustration had worked itself past the apathy again, inflaming his mind and his flesh, and his tail kept lashing every odd step or so, a flicker of ghastly white in the dark. As ever, the glow of his blaze lay as a dim, blinding curtain at the edges of his forward vision, a beacon for any who gazed into the night. His anger felt almost as hot as the heart he was approaching, a flickering flame licking the insides of its icy cage. Mauja was not one to succumb to emotions, to wrath least of all, but.. it was not so much anger as it was something born of desperation, frustration. Confusion. He wasn't angry at the world. He was angry with himself, and for no real reason.

The orange glow could've been soothing, maybe, on any other night. Now the flickering flames just bit his eyes, too bright as they roiled within their crater and spewed heat into the air above, distorting it. The gases burned cleanly, and as Mauja climbed the faint rise to the edge on this side, he became aware of a shape standing on the other; bulky wings folded to slender sides, her withers not cutting high into the air. He couldn't smell her for all the fumes from the heart, and wasn't sure he wanted to either. He wanted to be alone with his burden, with his godforsaken mood, and everything else. Even Irma was not nearby, hunting unfortunate mice further out where his reckless march would not scare them into hiding. Grinding his teeth together, Mauja took his eyes off the other horse and turned his entire side against the fire. He didn't want to look at it, either, and wondered if he'd gone here at all if it wasn't for the fact that it had been straight in his path. The heat and light lapped against his left side, painting his stark white hide red and yellow; his right side was silvery pale and..fucking cold, for a lack of better word. He scowled. This was why he hated fire. It snatched the warmth from whatever parts of yourself you weren't presenting it with, and if you strayed too close in your quest for heat, bit you hard instead. Sourly he flicked his tail, and thought that maybe it was just for the best if he left again.