Weaving among the trees of the south was nothing uncommon for the spotted beast of the North. Rather it was something he had always done, and always would do, yesterday, today, tomorrow, forever and ever. Sometimes the blood he found and brought home ran thin, dried out, the horse it belonged to leaving for one reason or another. Some defected, like Valentine. Some simply disappeared like snow upon the wind, carried to distance lands by the capricious breeze — some left, only to come again. And some, he thought with something akin to bitterness, leave against their own will. But, whatever. In a way he was done worrying that old bone, he was done feeling hurt and sorry for himself, done feeling lost and confused. If only he could wrench his mind out of its bitter patterns and into something new, something.. better, then perhaps he could be at peace again. Sighing, Mauja stepped away from the Thistle Meadow and its old, fading lavender glow. It was habit to pass far south of the Foothills, though for a moment he paused by one of the first, sturdy trees that marked the Threshold. Ophelia ruled there now, and she was far from his enemy.. so why did he avoid it like he used to?

Because the mixed smell affronted his royal nose? He snorted. No. Old habits die hard and he was fairly sure not all in her merry band of mercenaries would take kindly to the spotted unicorn, even if it was a very long time since he'd done anything to piss anyone off. It was like they saw through his skin to the shriveled heart beneath even when he smiled and told them lies, like they branded him a threat just because he chose to live with his own species. Shaking his head, Mauja passed into the shadow of the trees and wound between them, his black-rimmed ears flickering to each sound, nostrils quivering as he picked apart each scent. Horse, horse, horse. He remembered it'd taken him a few trips to get the tracking down, to get used to the mishmash of scents, to learn to pick only the fresh ones and ignore the rest. Those who were here yesterday were since long gone, and the best way to find something to bring home was to follow a fresh, feather-free trail and hoped the horse at the end had a horn on his head.

Flicking his tail he ambled along, quite at ease on that particular day; the darkness that seemed to cling to him in a more desperate fashion than even his own shadow was off somewhere else, leaving him with a youthful spring in his step. Why, he could almost say that he felt happy, something he hadn't in a long time. Oh, of course seeing his children filled him with joy, Tamlin's return was like the sun blasting a crater in his misery and filling it with warmth, but the happiness on this particular day was marvelous because no exact event had triggered it. Peering at the surroundings with bright eyes Mauja finally found who he'd been following. Young and scrawny the foal stood, ears perked and head up. He was younger than Tamlin, perhaps no more than half a year, all alone and in a rather awful shape if he was allowed to make a judgment. Thin, rugged, matted. Mauja frowned, briefly noting his snowcapped hind end, before focusing his gaze upon his face. Three horns he could see, and milky white eyes that had his frown deepening. Were they just that color, or was something wrong with him?

"Hey there, son," he called lightly, his baritone voice a blend of warmth and worry. While the boy had obviously survived on his own, he seemed in need of care if he wanted to make it, and something in his heart yearned to protect the child, take it under his wing and quietly curse whichever parents had left it to its own devices. Or had they died, in some unfortunate event? "Why are you here all alone?" Still moving, the Frostheart drew nearer, concern in his blue gaze. He did not know the child's past, could not know if he would flinch at a touch, and even though he longed to step forward and run his soft muzzle across his withers and neck, breathe warmth and safety into him, he forced himself to stop a few yards away.