i am the vanguard of your destruction

If winter had one definite advantage over the warmer seasons, it was snow. As Mauja stood beneath the shelter of a large oak, one hind hoof resting on its tip and his head drooping low, he imagined what today would've been in winter—a uniform gray stretching from horizon to horizon, a patchwork monochromatic sky.. and snowfall, flakes drifting solemnly from the sky to settle with its kin on the ground, soft and cold, just waiting for the sunlight to come again and strike them, to set them all a-glitter... The mist of drizzle blotted out the horizon, too, a curtain of gray nearly masking all of the forest on the other side of this stretch of open meadow, and the sound of water dripping on leaves was rhythmic, and soothing in its own way, but still he sighed and watched his breath smoke into the humid air. Even if there was some beauty and peace to spring rain, he was a creature of winter, and preferred the snow.

Snow didn't make you wet, either. Darker patches remained on his flanks, summer coat drying into slight swirls. While it wasn't raining that heavily (yet, his mind said, glancing briefly at the ever-darkening western horizon) he'd been out in it long enough to get a good soak, before finally settling where he stood now, dozing and contemplating life with his owls on guard.

If only there was some way he could magically find her, and set everything right before he went to that one place.. just summon her into existence, stumble upon her in the vast world... And if only everything would play out like it did and dreams in stories, with a bit of excitement and adrenaline but eventually, a good ending—a happy ending, whatever that meant.

What Mauja hated the most, was the notion that, maybe, they thought they had a right to ask for his life.

But his futuristic musings were broken by a dark shape coming in underneath the rain, lowering itself towards the ground with the elegance all Pegasi seemed to posses; it touched down and broke into a trot, having done this a million times before probably. Mauja blinked solemnly, and prepared to put the stallion—he could smell it was one, despite the earthy scent of rain—out of his mind when the familiarity of it caught up with him. His blue gaze snapped back, to that slender form, the rain making him seem even blacker and shinier; the silver spanning the inside of his wings folded into the darkness, but he could still see it along his flanks and face.. and that horn, pointing up from the mess of his mane, all crooked and smooth.

It was Mesec—son of d'Artagnan and the Moon. The last time Mauja had met him, he'd been on the verge of becoming bitter, confused as he was to his purpose in the world, but still the moon-child had had enough of a heart left to seem as if he cared about Mauja's state of mind. What was he know? Had he fallen into the blackness, or was he still afloat, heart still beating, and dreaming of joy and love?

It had been over a year ago. But if he'd remembered Mauja from his childhood in the Edge, and Basin.. would he remember Mauja still, now that he was older?

"Mesec?" he called through the drizzle, head rising and a question embedded in the kind hesitance of his voice.

[ @[Mesec] ]