A call, not aimed at him, rang out through the Basin. Mauja lifted his head from the patch of dusted grass he'd been browsing, and frowned, peering into the distance while his ears flickered. Nothing more came, just the summons, and he ran the names through his mind: Naberius, Totem, Dakini, Lupus. He didn't know any of them, nor the one who had called out, but if it was some secret boy's club, surely they'd not be bellowing for everyone (that was a lie; he just happened to be in the secluded corner of the valley where the source was) to hear? For a moment, the alabaster stallion considered resuming his meal, and pretending he'd never heard the call, but he couldn't do that any more than he could fly. Curiosity was one of his strongest drives, the force which propelled him through fear and into, sometimes foolhardy, courage. It was the question of what tomorrow would bring that saw him through despair, and the deep, unquenchable thirst for knowledge which drew him out of his lair, time and again, to mingle, ask questions, peruse the Threshold and poke his nose where it wasn't invited. As a King, it had been his right, his duty even, to investigate; what he was now, he didn't really know. To some, he was still King — to others, a stranger. What his rank was mattered not, for it was in the opinion of others he found his true status.

Flicking his tail, Mauja let his frosted hooves skim the snow-powdered ground, pinpointing the source as best as he could from memory. Irma was off hunting somewhere, not being particularly interested in what was going on, but kindly pointed out to him that if he wanted to reach the striped stallion, he'd better take the left-hand path and not the right, which would just land him where didn't mean to go. Giving her a thanks, met only with amusement, he took the left fork of the beaten patrol route, and ambled along. He'd been further away than the others, at least he guessed so, because he could smell them now. All strangers, except one, who hadn't been called. Irma crossed once overhead, giving him a flash of the gathered ones: the striped one, whom his memory recalled as Crowley from the meeting, a tall, painted stallion, the white wolf, and a brown male with a splotch of black on his shoulder. And, not to forget, his — err, friend? — Deimos, the tip of his long horn blue and deadly. He stood in his usual stiff manner, and though Mauja grinned, Irma haughtily told him that Deimos smelled of death and was best avoided. Quite sure that the General would agree, he told Irma that if Deimos ever, knowingly, attacked her, he'd beat him to a pulp.

Or try, at least.

What they'd been saying before he turned up he didn't know, and Irma had disappeared to hunt lemmings on the mountain slopes again. Flicking his tail as he approached, he knew that Deimos was the only one who really knew who he was, this wraith come to walk again, and with an easy sort of grace he glided up behind the General. He knew not to try and touch him, to trail a muzzle along his hip or shoulder as he would with the others he wished to acknowledge, for Deimos had the uncanny habit of giving his soul a sharp, lethal nip each time he did. Part of his affectionate stubborn nature wanted to keep doing it until Deimos gave in, but the risk of seriously offending the stallion — or getting himself killed — held him back. Instead, he just drifted in beside him, close enough to feel the steady drain of energy, but not near enough to be very affected by it. Giving Deimos a small grin and a nod, hoping he wouldn't extend his deathaura just to gain a few more inches of space, he then surveyed the rest of the group, dipping his briefly to them all and withholding judgment. What they'd been up to he didn't know, but if Deimos was involved, it was probably alright (and as far as Mauja could tell, he wasn't trying to kill anyone (yet)).