The murmur of the wind pulled him south, like nothing but flotsam upon the waves. While autumn had already begun to sink its claws into the north, summer lingered in the south; the cold atmosphere of the Steppe faded into something pleasant at the Meadow, a rise in temperature, yet the nights here were darker because the sun sunk deeper. It was strange — oughtn't the dark be chillier? And yet it was nothing but enjoyable against his skin, a near-perfect balance. Stars wheeled overhead and Mauja continued south under their glow, standing out like a beacon against the muted backdrop of gray and green. He was used to it. He knew that it had always been so, and always would be. It was what happened when you forsake the land of your birth for something else, and ended up in realms where your color was unnatural. He should consider the Basin a welcome blessing, but he didn't. It was a place to stay, but not his home.

A tired sigh escaped his dark nostrils, head lowering a fraction to brush against the long, swaying blades. The wind kept playing, capering around him, toying with his long mane and tail and pushing scents to and fro. Deer, horse, strangers and predators. They had all crossed here, some old, some new, and none his goal. He sought nothing but to move, exist, breathe a little easier and stare at the stars in the dark sky. The nights in the north were too bright and too short for it.

Some part of him wanted to stay alert, scan the surroundings and read the sign.. to detect life, and avoid it. Another part of him didn't care; so what if he passed two yards from someone? What did it matter? You hardly stopped to greet every stranger you passed in your travels, and him passing like a moon-wraith would hardly be out of the ordinary. And thus, Mauja did not alter his path, despite the fact that his nose told him someone was nearby. After all, it didn't matter, and the tinkle of the river intrigued him, enticed him, drew him closer. The sound of it clucking and murmuring was soothing, and one ear swept forward to listen to it before falling back again. His path altered subtly, his senses having pinpointed the river; frosted hooves parted the drying grasses with ease, and he found himself upon the rocky bank of it. Starlight shimmered upon the water's surface, and his gaze fell to it, before the darkness in the corner of his eye drew his attention.

So the stranger had been this close to his goal, after all. Pale blue eyes, washed out to silver in the night, rose to see who it was, gauge its mood, assess the dangers — and widened with recognition. "Delinne?" Her name was out of his mouth before he knew it, and in the next moment a slight frown creased his features. It was Delinne, down to the scar, but why hadn't he recognized her scent? Why did he still not recognize it? Why wasn't she in the Basin, with Destry and Druid?