"Who doesn't, these days" a fourth stallion murmured, words slipping wryly from the lips of the grullo as he parted from the shadow of the underbrush. Drawn close by the murmur of voices, some familiar, one unknown, he stepped forth towards the unusual gathering while surveying the others, face impassive. The sight of Aaron was as welcome as it was painful, relief from seeing the young friend alive battling against the old guilt - here was another soul he had failed to protect, whom he had left to fend for itself while Lace saved his own skin. He didn't think he would ever be able to fully set aside or forgive himself for this. Seeing Mauja there was a different kind of shock; he remembered all too clearly the pale figure of this former king as it danced across the battlefield, how a golden dragon had conveyed images of blood-stained snow to Fajira, and how his queen had wept over the body of a fallen brother.
She stirred now where she sat perched atop his whithers, hackles raised and eyes staring fixedly upon the Frostheart, a feral growl rumbling deep in the chest without letting a sound slip. Was she conveying the emotions Lace couldn't bring himself to display, or was it a personal grudge towards the four-leg who had caused the death of her beloved Kiba? Even he didn't know; all he felt as he looked at the ink-splattered unicorn was a sense of deep weariness and disgust at his own inability to set things aside. How many years had passed since Torasin died, how many since he had stolen the land of another just so he could call it home?
Yet... when he turned the gaze to get a proper look at Paladin, the gold-scarred stallion felt how his own worries drained away. Frowning slightly he padded closer to the old warrior, the blank expression replaced by traces of concern.
"You look like shit, Paladin" he said, not bothering to dress the words or curb his tongue - it was the truth, and the other didn't deserve the discourtesy of pretty lies. "The years don't look to have treated you kindly." Standing here next to the friend made Lace feel almost insolently healthy, coat wearing the healthy sheen of someone who had lived an easy life with plenty of time to graze and blessedly lacking in scars; only the shoulders and a thigh were marked, courtesy of battlefields and the Reaper's gentle treatment. It was hard to believe that he was almost the same age as the black, or that he had lived through enough battles himself to guess at the turmoils that lay behind those few, grim words.
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