Defeat - retreat - was never her favorite part of warfare. Trudging into the blackness of an oncoming night to the sound of strained grunts and pained cries echoing between the tall trees, muted - dulled - by the thick fog masking their graceless retreat. With the pace lowered, her heart not thundering in wild, wrecked excitement, mortality began to return. Her ribcage ached from a few kicks and being compressed between two bodies, her haunch throbbed, her butt throbbed. Still, one look at Mauja and she knew she was well off. His back was burnt, each movement strained, as if he'd rather just stop and roll over instead of keep going. But he did, silently trudging east. Alan's spirits were dimmed, muted, her body just plodding along without any of her usual exuberance. Even her thick mane lay flat against her neck, not standing out in a disarray, her tail nearly dragging across the snow cover. Mauja's mood was rubbing off on her, where otherwise she might've joked and tried to make it less of a death-heavy defeat. Sighing, she kept going through the night. How was d'Artagnan doing, off in the throat? Descaro? She turned to peer after the sturdy warrior, but didn't make an approach. He liked mares far too much for her to ever creep close to him. Never knew what might happen.

The ground sloped gently downwards as dawn slowly crept upon them. The sky in the east grew lighter, first simply blue, then closer to the horizon, yellow and peach. She snorted, remembering the idiot she'd helped knock out. Fitting that his colors flared across the sky on their first dawn as exiles. Mauja climbed down the gentle slope, and Alan followed in her unusual silence. Once past the wall of mountain, the cold sea glittered before her eyes, the distant lands of the tundra on the horizon. There was a harsh chill in the air, the ocean steaming gently, moisture settling on her shaggy coat and freezing. Her tail coiled itself around her hocks, trying to hide beneath her, and she snorted, skidding to a halt in the thin layer of snow too. Mauja turned to look at them, and she gave a low growl. Why had he called a retreat? Couldn't they have held out, fought back, somehow overwhelmed their enemies? Broken and waged guerrilla war on them, leading them to a certain drop off the Edge?

How dared he stand there and talk of vengeance, when he had bid them run, while their enemies still drew breath?

"Why," she hissed, tail lashing behind her like an angry cat's. Alan's amber eyes lit up with fire, the weariness of the night taking its toll and grating on her nerves. It was so easy to be angry, easier than seeing all the ways you failed. "Why did you call us off? Why did you make us run, when we could've fought until we died?" It was so simple in her world, no tactic, no black or white - just pure, raw action. Kill or be killed - retreat wasn't an option. Somehow, she found herself feeling betrayed by his orders, unable to bash herself bloody against the Qian until her eyes grew dark and her lungs drew no more breath. She would've bled herself dry for him, had he but asked. "Why, Mauja? Why?"