Your side. Odd as it was, Mauja hated it when people told him of his side and their side - as if they knew anything at all about him. As if they knew about themselves. Still, he couldn't fault them for judging him based on what they saw... a cold King, willing to protect his own, taking it to the extreme at times: a herd of horned, no wing or bare forehead to be seen from horizon to horizon. Of course, those who didn't agree with that vision called it his side. Life wasn't ever that easy, though, but he didn't bother to say anything about it. When it came down to it, Giselle and Psyche were both racists, and that was what Ophelia had been saying. Apparently most of the others were too, and he didn't know whether to be glad or not. It sounded as if the Crimson King had pretty much beat it into the heads of his children to be that way - racism should never be forced upon you. You should find it within, a desire to be destined for greatness, to be part of something glorious with horns raised high towards the sky. There was no logic in racism, only passion.

It seemed that Irma's lack of desire to play upset the poor dragon, as he left them to their own devices. Mauja snorted, and Irma just clicked her beak once. She was, like most snowy owls, a solitary creature - other birds interested her not, nor did dragons, apparently. He doubted she would've been with him, if not for the strange bond stretching between them, a link unlike anything he had ever experienced before. He could feel her cold indifference in the face of having upset the dragon, as if winter itself sat perched on his shoulder. Then Tor was telling him to hold still, and despite every irrational, childish urge to throw a fit and run off, he did. Upon his head, Irma spun to watch what happened on his back, but the King himself just closed his eyes, begging his tired nerves to feel.

His flesh cooled, the fever of infection draining out of him much too quickly for his body to comprehend, but another sensation replaced it. He'd had enough scabs to know how much it could itch, enough chilled muscles to recognize the nearly painful sensation of it thawing; the same kind of irritating pain crept through him as his body reworked itself, sapping Tor of strength to fuel the quickened recovery. It felt weird, and his nerves kept pounding just out of habit. He didn't even detect when she stopped, only the sound of a body hitting the floor making his eyes snap open, head spinning around to give a blue eye clear view of the scene. Briefly he saw the tender, pink arch of his backside, the skin irregularly knotted and hairless, and then his gaze fell on the draft mare. She was more or less lying, piled up against the wall. Sprawled, as if someone had knocked her out. Ophelia quickly padded over to her, but Mauja hung back a moment longer. Had he been one who wanted to hide all evidence of his own weakness, he would've killed them both and run off. But he wasn't. Tor had no place in his future, but when it suited him, he followed the whims of his morals.

Movement brought shadows of pain to him still, a reflex response of how it had been for many days now - it'd take a few minutes before they realized he wasn't in pain anymore, he guessed. "My legs require no immediate attention," he said, something absent in his tone as he lowered his head to bump his muzzle against Tor's poll. He wasn't quite sure if he'd ever stood this close to Ophelia before - close enough to feel the heat radiate from the flat of her white shoulder, close enough that their heads nearly touched. If he flicked his tail, it'd brush against her hock and flank. Mauja blinked. It was a correct observation, he guessed, but wholly irrelevant, and so he wrenched it from his mind and focused on the downed mare. She seemed conscious at least, but utterly spent. And she was in an ice cave on a freakin' tundra. Great. "You'll be getting very cold," he stated, matter-of-factually. If she could get up and lock her knees, they could box her in and keep her warm - but if she couldn't get up, well, one of them - or both - would just have to try and curl up against her on the floor, which would require some motor skill. Horses were quite graceless on the ground.

Mauja Frosthjärta