það var farið að skyggja og fuglarnir þagnaðir Bit by bit he started to get the feeling that something was wrong, more so than everything already was. The closer he came, the more off the stranger was — his eyes glowed, an unearthly dimness in the oncoming darkness, and despite the way Zdravilo's scent was present upon the faint wind, Mauja could catch no traces of the stranger's scent. It was unnerving, to say the least, and his faintly mocking voice was not pleasant, despite its lightness.. and least of all, were the words. "Tut tut, Snowspot. It is rude to make strangers of old victims, is it not?" At that point, Mauja's oncoming halt became a rather graceless affair, more like someone suddenly yanking a leash. Rather abruptly he ceased all forward motion, eyes widening as he barely heard the rest — strangers of old victims... but I've never killed anyone who looks like you! His pulse was roaring in his ears, heartbeat frantic; who had he killed now? And why had they come back to haunt him, clearly lifeless as their bodies rotted, but still here, tangible and alive? Only years of practice kept his face blank and eyebrows from drawing together in consternation. Instead, he simply resembled a frigid statue, the faint movement of his mane seeming light and lifeless upon the gentle wind.

Only a shimmer of his figure, a wrecking of his perfect, pristine skin snapped Mauja out of it. The despair that had been drowning him, the nameless terror of what was afoot, was coldly, cruelly, washed away, leaving him choking for air as if the sea had, indeed, been cradling him; "PROMETHEUS!" he yelled, half-scolding, half-relief. A ragged breath passed in through his black nostrils, eyes giving way to emotions as they widened and almost rolled. The sudden revelation that it was the undead colt had him weak in the knees, and he wished desperately for his old forested home where he could simply, casually, lean against a massive trunk to steady his frayed nerves — but here, at the mouth of the valley, his prospects were bleak. Not even the fading of fire pleased him, and he expelled his lungful of air in a snort to mask the waver he knew was present in his throat. Gods blast that wicked colt. All the same, Mauja was thankful there was nothing more to it, and thankful that his frantic mind had jumped to the right conclusion for once. Now that he knew who he was dealing with (and having the faint, rotten scent to remind him, though it was fading with the lulling winds — suddenly the lack of scent made sense), he could kind of recognize the pattern of his wine-red splotches.

And if Theus would still want a home after Mauja screaming at him — well, that would remain to be seen. Zdravilo, however, seemed disinclined to stay, taking her leave. Not yet trusting his voice he simply lowered his head in acknowledgment, watching her move away for a moment while trying to collect his scattered, shattered world. Ever since he'd killed Delinne things just seemed wrong, and.. surely Prometheus didn't know what a scare he'd just given him? Again, Mauja forced out the air in a half-snort, shaking his head as he turned back to the old, familiar face. "I just killed a mare who still lives," he said wearily, ignoring the subject of homes for now; some part of him felt like he owed the undead horse an explanation. "But not in quite the same way I, err, would've killed you, hadn't you already been dead... Her body lies rotting in the meadow, yet she still lives in my home." For a moment he peered quizzically at Prometheus; it was strange, to see him so tall, so.. whole, and handsome. "Let's just say your words had me slightly irrational for a moment." At the back of his mind, Irma cackled, thinking slightly to be an understatement. His head craned down, the tip of his horn motioning towards the tiger and the re-frozen ice around him. "Who's your friend?"

( lmao this just took like 6-7 hours from first word to the last! xD )
þegar úlfarnir opnaði augu hans í myrkrinu.