She was detailing a very long journey when Mauja came upon them, and his coal-tipped ears flipped forward, drinking it in. She spoke of sunrises and years and sans and smoking mountains, and he found himself incredibly grateful he wasn't required to go there. He disliked sand, disliked warmth, thrived in snow. Besides, he was far too busy trying to mass a unicorn army here to gallivant off on six years of adventure. He'd probably be roasted alive before coming back. But he smiled slightly, dreaming of distant lands he would hear of but never visit - perhaps if he had been a different stallion he would've traveled, but as it was, he felt rather comfortable doing his dirty work here. Puzzled, the mare with the odd accent stared at him for a moment. He raised one 'brow in a kind but questioning manner, and when she revealed the source of her confusion it went down. It was a habit of his, calling his herd mates brothers and sisters, and often he used it when trying to recruit new unicorns - it made them feel, well, welcomed. Familiar. If he'd known Ophelia's thoughts he would've reassured her that the horn upon her brow made her a sister too, but circumstance was what had prevented him from ever using that label on her.

Scheherazade was her name, and it was as foreign as her thick accent. Many strangely speaking horses traveled through the Threshold, but he didn't think he'd heard one of this particular dialect before. It was interesting, the multicultural environment in which they lived, united by their species - or, as the case of the other herds, by their stupid open mindedness. Mauja gave Ophelia a smile, listening to her talk. Her honesty was admirable - most came here detailing the falsified glory of their own land and herd, while shunning the others. He was grateful that she had enough sense to let Scheherazade know that mostly Pegasi lived in the Throat. Aaaand here we go... Of course, Ophelia dropped his title. He didn't even bat an eyelash at it, but strangely enough he usually preferred to go without it. Sometimes the situation required it, but most of the time he tried to earn respect for who he was, and not the throne he sat upon. Still, he could hardly berate Ophelia for her kindness in filling this stranger in. He'd tell of his home, but wondered if it was a lost cause. If she had come from a desert, it was likely she'd feel more at ease in the Throat, than in the dark, misty forest of the Edge. "I am King at World's Edge," he informed her kindly, gently, voice smooth and soft and so at odds with the frigidity of his appearance. "A forest upon a cliff, with a sheer drop into the ocean. You would be welcome, should you wish to live in such a place. I've gathered it's nothing at all like your homeland," he added with a smile. There were also the Foothills, but Mauja couldn't be bothered telling her about them. Despite the way Kri acted, he preferred the feisty mare over Gossamer. Indy was probably the only good thing to have come out of the Foothills ever.