But isn't honesty a prized quality? Isn't honesty what his brother told him to practice, a painful, harrowing cure for his lingering sadness? Some honesty with himself and the world, so he could admit where he wanted to be; what he wanted to do; where he wanted to go.

So, really, it was about courage, having the strength to follow your dreams even when they were not what others expected of you—and honesty was just a means to achieve that. Besides, he didn't want to lure the stranger in with twisted words, or by withholding truth. Everyone who came to live in the Edge had a right to know that their patroness was a crazy bitch. Much as it bothered Mauja that some might choose not to come there for that simple reason.. they had that right to know. It was about their lives, after all, important decisions and certain risks. It could be any one of them next.

But all of his thoughts, those carefully constructed chains following the logical order from one thing to another, were cut short—they broke and fell apart, collapsed, and if it wasn't for the fact that he generally displayed very little on his face, you would've seen how blank it became.

"And with a strapping stallion like you around, I'm certain it'd be made easy."

He sounded so.. genuine, so easy and warm, and Mauja just stared vacantly ahead, heart hammering.

Would he never escape?

Did he read too much into everything?

Hadn't it been enough with mares doing this to him? Did the guys have to start doing it, too?

He wanted to squirm, to dance around on the spot, run away, back the way he had come—but he was rooted to the spot, eyes gentle, breath even. He wanted.. he wanted.. ugh, what did he want?

Clean, sterile interactions following pre-decided manuscripts, sentences with no room for interpretation. No confusion. No panic.

They laughed, at something, Mauja's ears twitching to the sound as some base instinct made his lips curve, as if he understood, as if he understood anything—as if he hadn't stopped listening, too busy listening to the panicked roar of his pulse.

Ladies. Lovely ladies. Something something Basin.

And, damn, that question about peace and destruction—he tried to imagine Torleik at the head of a vicious army, burning trees and slaughtering foals. Only problem?

He could actually imagine it—aesthetically. Did he think it was plausible it'd ever happen? No. Did he know Torleik worth shit, and thus was able to make a correct assessment of the Black King's temperament and morals? Fuck no.

The Basin is beautiful, his mind hummed in quiet agreement, but he didn't want to say it out loud—didn't need to shove it in their faces that he'd been everywhere in Helovia. "Well," he began, his voice so much warmer than his trembling heart, ears straining to hear everything Tembovu said (and didn't say), "if the lovely lady is interested in relocating, I could give you the package deal." He shrugged; lovely ladies to look at at least. Mauja would never dare tread on someone's right to choose their own actual company.

"On a more serious note, no, we do not plan to follow in the Moon's footsteps. She's a Goddess—she does what she wants. If she wants to be worshiped and guide us, she'd better damn start acting like she's worth it. We go where we will, and it looks like we're heading for peace."

It makes me want to vomit.

Mauja hated the notion of Helovia-wide peace—it was boring. It was absolutely, utterly, terminally boring, but when you're faced with the outcast life or a life of keeping yourself on the carpet (or, to put it in a way anyone else will understand: toeing the line).. you've kind of run out of plausible choices. Helovia was just too damn big these days.

[ @[Tembovu], @[Rexanna] <3 Mau: IS HE FLIRTING WITH ME?!?!?!?!? /panics ]

lord, the demands you're making-
help the monster on two feet
walk him down the hall, repeat
and when he's strong enough to stand alone
you'll notice what big teeth . . .