Slowly the strained lines around Mauja's eyes smoothed out, and relaxed, until there was nothing but the quick movements of his pupils to suggest he watched intently. Even if they hadn't looked like copies of each other, he would've guessed they'd been in each others company a long, long time. The bump of a muzzle, meaningful looks, small signs only they could fully know the meaning of. He was nothing but a spectator to their silent speech, yet drinking it up all the same, registering, but too tired to analyze and interpret. What did it mean, anyway? What was the point of fucking anything?

He had the sudden urge to just walk away, and find a creek in which to drown himself until his gurgling breaths were nothing but lungs full of water, but his icy control won out even against despair. It solved no problems, and only created a lot more.

How was he supposed to tell them apart by sight, anyway? Dusk bled most colors out of the world, and as they had largely the same body, it'd be hard to tell at a difference. Flicking his gaze across their bodies, he settled for the less than satisfactory thing in the end: the color of their manes. The mare's ended in darker tips, and as she spoke again, he decided that he liked her better than her brother. He seemed so.. grumpy. In the wrong way. d'Artagnan was grumpy in the good way.

It was a foreign sensation all the same, the quick judgment which came to him; hadn't he always been one to watch and observe for a long time, before "deciding" what to think? Why did his patience run so thin that he judged them, here and now? He felt like growling and bashing his face against a tree, but kept quiet, still, listening to her voice in the budding darkness, nodding an affirmative as she repeated his words. "It's a pleasure, Skylies, Lyriel," he responded, nodding to each one in turn. And just as he thought he had a grip on it, on the situation, on himself, the mare — the pleasant one of them! — slicked her ears back, as if he'd transformed into some kind of demon.

"I've not gone transparent, have I?" Before he knew it, the words were out of his mouth, something almost comical and worried in his voice and face despite the sinking sensation in his stomach.

But whatever it was, Lyriel seemed to not want to pay attention for it, for he cleared his throat, clearly ignoring his sister's display. Mauja duly obliged and turned his attention to him; he seemed unfazed at least, so perhaps he hadn't turned out to be a ghost after all. The alabaster stallion hoped so, at least — he'd hate if it turned out it all was a lie, that he still wasn't back. "Uh..." He made somewhat of a face, a thoughtful grimace, an expression so far from the collected calm he normally displayed that if any of his friends who knew him had been present, they surely would've wondered who this impostor was. "We've got a habit of housing wolves and the like, but as far as horses go, there's only horns." Smoother, softer, quieter, he spoke again, a single word, yet weighted down: his gaze locked onto Lyriel's, something darker in them, seemingly saying you should answer honestly, yet there was nothing hostile about it — merely serious. "Why?"