Mauja the FrostHeart
ice cold man watches earth die, eternal winter takes its reign

The tall, sleek stallion was regarding him with intensity in his gaze - as if trying to peer into his very heart. Curious, Mauja's head tilted to the side. Whoever had taught Ambrose to cloak his face was good, for the black stallion himself was good, speaking softly, proudly, and giving nothing away except that sharp glint of curiosity in his ever-shifting eyes. It felt like standing next to his own shadow, a veiled creature, a mirror; perhaps he should've been unnerved, at being watched so, but he wasn't. He could handle himself. And after all, all Ambrose gave him was his usual stoic facade, simply tinged with a little more.. interest than usual. It was either good or bad, or meant nothing at all. Mauja shrugged it off, nickering quietly to Deimos when he slid out of the darkness like a snake. The blue top of his long horn led the way, and for a moment the King fastened his eyes on its tip. He was far from blind, though it would easily seem so at night; he acknowledged Ambrose's words with a nod. "That pleases me," he murmured, waiting for the stallion to finish his scrutiny of Deimos. Who didn't feel just a little strange in the company of the Life-Eater?

A warrior. He'd been expecting it, really, but merely flicked his raven-decked tail at the words. Thin strands slapped against his ghastly hocks, a low hum slipping out of his maw - moonlight glinted off the length of Ambrose's horn, and Mauja arched one 'brow. The cause. Had he been eavesdropping? Had someone told him? Psyche? The Plague was quite the secret, of course, and he liked to keep tabs on those who couldn't keep their mouths shut. If it was Psyche, though, then it was alright... But he couldn't know without asking. Mauja focused his eerie night-eyes on the black creature again. Such vehemence. Though it was true that the hornless were little more than vermin, Mauja himself rarely used the term. Who knew when his tongue would slip him up if he got used to throwing such words about? He was always dancing on the knife's edge, and it would be so easy to cut himself...

"Have you met Deimos, Ambrose?" Mauja asked, sidling up closer to the gray beast. He'd not killed him the last time, and hopefully wouldn't now; and if he did, well, then Mauja had most certainly cut himself badly on the knife's edge. He gave his usual smile, the small, wry little gesture, and sidestepped into Deimos' sphere of death. It sucked away at his will, at his energy, but he acted as if he didn't feel it at all - he'd spied the ashen beast eating, briefly touching things with his muzzle without killing them. The FrostHeart placed his trust in that, amazed at how he simply trusted Deimos not to kill him (he hardly trusted, and that lay at the core of his amazement) - he leaned in, blew hot air on Deimos' muzzle before bumping against it. Just the proximity of it... Smoothly he stepped forward, out of the death zone. Any encounter with Deimos usually left him feeling drained, and he wished he could just run away and sleep for a thousand years. He always wished he could do that. And he never could.

He continued up to Ambrose, repeating the greeting with him - hot air, muzzle bump. "I want you to do something. Go stand close to him. He's a fellow warrior." Still smiling, Mauja stepped back to allow the black stallion to pass. It'd be a fine test indeed... He was glad Deimos had come along. Not only was he fascinated with him and his powers, but he was quite useful, too. He only hoped he wouldn't upset his feelings by using him like this, but it'd certainly be a fine test for Ambrose's resolve. He favored the gray beast with a fond smile, before directing his soft voice at the black again. "Who told you, of the cause?" An all-unicorn herd was suspicious, he'd admit to that, but it took some actual knowledge to know that there was an underground operation going on. Mauja wanted to know, even if he'd have to tear the name out of his mouth.