He'd always been a stray; a few weeks ago it was between foggy trees he had strode, always moving, always going somewhere, never lingering long in the same place. He had not held court at certain hours, but had moved among his own, answering the calls for attention which rolled in on the wind and making a few of his own. But the Edge had been a natural place for them all to gather, since they belonged to the forested cliff; they had come there for shelter in the dark nights, for food and safety, to take their minds off things and merely exist within the herd. Out here, under the open sky, there were no natural boundaries to keep them together. When they moved, Mauja moved with them, running in circles to round them up and keep tabs on them all. He stayed still only when he slept, barely even when browsing for food. It was wearing, but what choice did he have? None.

He'd wandered west again, to the strange tunnels and caves of the Frozen Arch. Sometimes the wind howled through them, sometimes they were cool and quiet, but always, always, your distorted reflection stalked you through their depths. Disconcerting, unless you were obsessed with confirmation of your own existence.

The call came in an unknown voice, distinctively female but not one he knew. A stranger, then. Seeking business with the ex-King. What the hell did she want with a defeated old mongrel, then? Was she here to gloat? Did she need an audience to gloat? More amused than annoyed, Mauja disentangled himself from the surroundings, sticking first a dark muzzle into the light outside and then the rest of his body. Open curiosity resided in his blue eyes, head given a questioning tilt as he took her in at a glance. Stocky, with well-defined muscles; scarred, a couple of recent gashes too. Red roan, splotched with white. Six sharp horns upon her head. It was a new style, but just as unicorn as any other horn, or so he figured. "Ex-King?" he asked, a note of amusement in his smooth voice. "Well, that depends entirely on what you defined my kingship of as in the first place." One 'brow rose as he padded closer, easy and graceful upon the snow. Perched as usual on his shoulder was the rapidly growing owl, a mess of white and dark blue scalloping, eyes of winter peering at the mare with unyielding, unforgiving eyes. Irma was not a social creature, and lacked understanding of his own passion for others. If she would get her will through, they'd retire to some snowy plain and live their days alone, except when mating with others. Not quite what Mauja wanted from life.

"But, yes, if you sought Mauja you've certainly found him, stranger," he said after a moment, faint warmth tracing the outlines of the syllables and hanging in the air.