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.