[ since this thread is old, I guess a move to the Shadowlands so we can complete it is in order? ]

It seemed that the sunlight and gentle blowing wind had stolen all hotheaded anger out of them, taken it up in its peaceful dance and stolen away, leaving little trace of it. Mauja's blood was cold once more, a slow, red trickle through old veins; his soul that plain of snow, lit by the pale winter sun, where nothing stirred. Where no black anger reared its ugly head. Even his voice was like that, reminiscent of the blend of snow and sun—as if he had all the patience in the world, all the time in the world, to stand there and ask her little questions and drink in the answers. Grow wiser. And in a way, he had. He wasn't going anywhere. He had nowhere to go. Nothing important to do. And in that sense, he was oddly honest. Oddly honestly calm. After having lived so long with his pulse pounding and just barely pulling his haunches away from the snapping destruction, it was strange.

Strange meets strange and it was fitting. She still didn't speak straightly, not exactly as if playing with him, but more like.. like she didn't know how to simply answer. It amused him a little. Why would he ask, if he didn't want to know more? Just to be able to put her down by saying he didn't care about "stupid little girls"? No; that wasn't his game. He'd never been cruel in those ways.. somehow, he had a notion he'd been a kind of good person his entire life.. depending on how you viewed things, of course. But, he thought with a slight smile curving his lips, it seemed like if he but asked, she would answer now; at least, if her words were honest. Her dainty muzzle reached out, like another shaft of sunlight in the forest. While her eyes were still warm, they didn't study him quite that way anymore. Besides, he'd made his point incredibly clear, hadn't he? So, if any of the world's logic still was sound...

Mauja's considerably larger head stretched forward, too, sunlight rippling over his white neck. Not that he had time to formulate, much less ask, any useful question before she cut in again; whispering, almost, soft as if afraid to stir some kind of beast.. or afraid of the answer? But she didn't seem afraid. Maybe it was just another quirk, to add some kind of suspense, there between the dark, looming trees. Still, if she wanted juicy tales of dark necromantic cults, he'd have to disappoint. He shook his head. "I'm a lone wolf," he replied, the small smile curving into his crooked grin for a moment. It was as much truth as he could put into words without going haywire—could he say that he sided with no-one? Supported no-one? If the Edge came hammering at the Basin and he knew of it, could he let those thieves try to steal more things they had no right to, and not defend the place where the majority of his family and friends resided? He wasn't sure. All he knew was that he needed some distance, some clarity, to not live in their midst and breathe their corrupt ideals and fuel the fires he'd helped start...

"So, your group.. what's your ambition?" Dark voice fell from dark lips, quiet and thoughtful; just another secretive murmur in this secretive place, and his blue eyes lit up with something—a mystery, simple knowledge, a little bit of insight in another's world... all things which he prized, things that made him feel alive, as he stored whatever tales he was told deep within his mind. What did she dream of?

She didn't leave him be.

Not that he left her be, either.

Mauja's mind was a maze, as secretive as the storm clouds darkening midnight skies; he spoke as little of himself as he could, but nudged and nosed for the secrets of others. He wanted to know of their hearts and dreams, drink in every little detail and commit every word to memory—and wanted to give nothing of himself away. At least, nothing that was deeper than his skin. He wore his scars for all to see, but didn't speak of what caused them.

"I choose to walk alone," he replied in a low, even voice; was that a flash of wolfish darkness chasing itself across his irises? A hint of mystery to put her off her questions, before she lured out the demon in him again? Besides, it was the safest thing to answer: it was his choice. Did he need to justify it? He'd simply say, because I want to, and that'd be the end of it. For some strange reason he'd allowed Nyx to dig into his mind, into his hoard of secrets, but this youngster—no. He did not want to let her in. For his own sake. And for her sake. The old voice of caution was there, whispering that those who knew too much could not be allowed to share what they knew.

But she was just as secretive as he, two glacial statues trying to talk with stone tongues and feel alive with dust in their marble veins, but nothing but the wind blew between them, as insignificant as the mayflies. Her reply drew a dark, quiet chuckle from him—something about her teasing for more information had drawn the warmth out from the sun, raised the old walls of caution in his mind. Better to be detached beneath the pleasantry, cold underneath the layer of faux warmth lining his pale skin: nothing but a dream, of glorious darkness, and things which could never be. As beautiful as the mountain peaks, and just as unreachable.

"Hmm," he breathed in response, blinking slowly. Information for information? An interesting trade, but one he could not trust, and didn't particularly want to partake in. Not honestly at least, and she could feed him whatever lies she wanted—just as he could. And would, if she was persistent enough. "I come from the far, distant north," he finally said, a trace of life in his frigid blue eyes. And his life in Helovia? That was not a tale for the ears of adolescents, far too dark to speak of to any but those who had partaken in it. And to those, he did not speak of it, but lived it.

"In Helovia, I have roamed far and wide," he finally said, letting that small smile edged with darkness return. "Some would know of me by name, some not. Ask around, and perhaps you will hear of my deeds—though I cannot promise it will be a tale you will enjoy. Perhaps you would've wished you'd left the hunt alone." And his head tilted to the side, his eyes once again unreadable; a mirror of whatever she wanted to see in them.

[ OMG A NICKNAME. ]

Some people thrive with the wolves at their heels, some find it fun for a while, but then, when they're trying to outpace death and beat their head against a stone wall at the same time—they stop to see the fun in it. Because there is no fun in it, when your dance partner is a statue made of marble and as immovable as a rock, and just as unbendable and graceless as the frozen dead. Perhaps she was not yet hardened enough to toss and toy with information like a bone between growling stray dogs, put off by the way he skirted the issue and said nothing of value, because just like that she looked at him, keenly, and ended the game. Simply walked off the board. ".. Mauja the Ironclad."

Iron? No one had ever said he was clad in iron before. Subtly he glanced down at his own legs, the clean, strong width of his cannons and the mess of long fur by his hooves—iron? Was his mind and soul so strong that she truly saw no hope at all?

Well, it was for the best. He couldn't go around falling apart like this.

She went on a little, turned away, and he couldn't help but feel like he'd let her down somehow. It lodged in his veins, a weight across his heart—hadn't he, sort of, wanted to help her? And instead just pushed her further and further away? Too caught up in the rhythm of his own dance, of trying not to trip over his feet and fall down and break his legs.

"We have hope because we're all mortal fools," he mumbled after her retreating back, the feeling of failure washing across his skin like yesterday's sweat, unpleasant and chafing. "And keep trying because one day, we hope that things will turn out differently." Quietly he shook his head, long mane stirring against an arched neck—if there ever was an angel it was he, as cold and selfish as the distant stars. "Vertu sæl, Aurelia, og má þin framtíð verda bjartari."

And so, Mauja, too, turned his back on that place and left, as graceful as the wind but as heavy as the mountains.