i am the vanguard of your destruction

There were a great many things he wanted to do—blink rapidly, yawn, shake his head a few times, stretch a few sore, tired muscles.. but all of those would betray weakness, give away the fact that he was dead exhausted, ready to drop back into slumber the moment she stopped talking to him. Instead, he simply tilted his head to get her into a different part of his focus, solemnly blinking away the rheum.

"No," she responded, and Mauja just shrugged. Whatever. He guessed 'stop sleeping' was a legit command, too, it just sounded quite a lot more rude. Briefly, his eyes narrowed. She probably didn't care. She wasn't eying him with warmth and concern; she hung back to the shadows of the tree, watching him from the darkness, her voice the cold shift of the night air.

No. This was not someone concerned with niceties. Or if she was, she was making a damn good job of hiding it. Appearances could be deceiving, but so far, everything about her just whispered cold.

He wasn't at all sure what she wanted of him, or why she'd woken him up in the first place. Surely it wasn't out of concern that the wolves would eat him? So when her gaze went upwards, to study his owls, he looked at her unabashedly. The contrast of red, white and black niggled at his mind, but he couldn't place it; slender limbs carried a warmblood frame, and a long, thin horn jutted out from her forehead. Mixed blood; weakness, or double strength? A few years ago he would've seethed within and plotted how to best get rid of her, cleanse the world from this blight, but now it stirred nothing but dust in his soul. Fascinating, how quickly some things change. And how easy it is to forget that which you once believed in.

But her eyes fell again, back to him, that stray ray of moonlight walking even the dark places of the world, and his own gaze—now blessedly clear of rheum—flitted to hers. She seemed too restless to meet them. Did she need to float and move like the shadows cast by the moon? Did standing still irk her, make her feet itch?

The question that came was not what he'd expected, patiently waiting for her to reveal her motives—nor was it easy to answer. Did he like the forest? He had to admit it had a certain, dark beauty, tragedy written in the lines of its mauled bark, but it held too many bad memories. Despite the way her voice inflected on nothing he got the notion he ought to say yes.

"Not really," he said, because he was no liar. "You?" Again, the notion struck him that she'd respond the opposite of him, because as her gaze traveled through the shadows beneath the leafy crowns, it seemed to.. warm? No, that was not the word, because she still had the dark, beady eyes of a raven, but she did not look at it like you look at something that bothers, or frightens you; she looked at it the way you might look at an old friend, at ease. Then, with a frown, she turned back to him. His own face and eyes were blank, except for a mild curiosity. "Who are you?"

"They call me Mauja," he said, "but that hardly answers your question, does it?" A slight smile with a wicked edge curved his dark lips. Let's see if she liked to fence with words; or if she would smack him for his answer.

But frankly, it was a broad question. It had many answers, and none that was easy, or that he could even give—except for his name.