[ This post is terrible, my brain has melted. ]

Now that he stopped and thought about it . . .

. . why the fuck was he here. Why. He didn't like people. He didn't want company. He didn't—he didn't even want to bring anyone back to the Edge. Because everyone sucked and life sucked and la la la la.

It was strange, really. On one hand he felt ..oddly at peace with the situation; and on the other, his mind was roaring at him to get the hell out of there. “Hil-di-gahn…” the tiny pony said, after staring at him in a sort of starstruck fashion, gesturing to herself. "I've been gone a long time," the other said, as if that somehow explained shit. (It didn't.) And having three languages going on in his head at the same time felt pretty surreal, like he'd suddenly wandered into a strange dream—if he opened his mouth, what kind of jumbled mess would come out? So he opened his mouth, because he was curious, but he didn't have the time to say anything. The tall stallion went on, saying "Ponies." in a way that rubbed Mauja in exactly all the wrong directions. What the hell was wrong with ponies? And the way he said it—did he automatically belong to some kind of tall horse club, where everyone was snobby and snooty, just because he was tall? Why the hell would Mauja be his buddy just because he happened to be fairly tall as well..?

"My boyfriend is a pony," he said, smooth as fresh snow, features barely shifting as the words tumbled out of his mouth; there was a faint note of hurt in his voice. Like, don't fucking judge who I love and nevermind the fact that Mauja neither had a boyfriend nor really knew any ponies. It was just so incredibly rude.

And it hit so incredibly close to home.

Ponies—

Equines, Pegasus—

Superiority, just in a different guise. Arrogance, by virtue of blood. A deep, profound belief that one is better based on mere physical grounds. Once, it had been Mauja standing in the Threshold, preaching supremacy based on the fucking fact that he had a horn.

And now this nameless stranger was doing the exact same, except it was about height—a superficial trait which made the concept ten shades more ridiculous. A shudder traveled down his soul as he glanced down at the poor pony. Would she understand what was going on? Aside from the brute trying to shove her aside, that was; that one wasn't very subtle.

So maybe you were supposed to be nice in the Threshold. Maybe you were supposed to be good and recruit people. Show your best side.

Fuck that.

Mauja wasn't here to be bought. If this tall, thick stranger wanted to sell himself he'd have to do a damn fucking better job. Mercenary. Bah. Mercenaries were always full of shit. (I should know, I've been one—) And he wanted work. Work. Well, what kind of work?

His brain glitched out again. (Poor Hildegunn.) His stance shifted subtly; his neck arched to create a supple curve, and his blue eyes were soft, framed by long lashes as he peered up at the taller stallion. Raising his tail slightly—coyly—he drew a step closer, lingering in the motion for a moment as a little smile curved dark lips. All this little charade took was .. replacing 'mercenary' with another word .. and suddenly you had an entirely different scenario going on. And his justification? Bah! He'd just spat out some foreign language at the pair of them, he'd just claim it was a cultural misunderstanding or some such shit.

"Work? You should try the Valley of the Dicks," he murmured, a husky, silky whisper slipping out into the air between them.

Misplacing all your marbles had to have some sort of upside to it, and in the back of his soul, Diego was cackling madly.

[ Mauja, trolling the threshold since 2012... <___< ]

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 . . .