It's hard to get to heaven,
when you're born hell-bound.

He never quite knew who she was. When the rest of Helovia had clamored for their blood and watched them with beady eyes, reading murder in their every move, she had walked, brazenly, into his home — to apologize. Even though her blatant trespass had irked him, as all trespassing did, he had to admit she seemed confident in her recklessness, and the sting of her disregard for his borders had been softened somewhat by her.. admission that maybe they were wrong to jump the gun and call him racist? But since then, so much had been lost, home and sanity and hate, and they thrived in the frozen north. His eyes were level, watching her in thoughtful silence, wondering who she was, if she truly was so different.. or if she just pretended, to get under his skin. Perhaps she hoped he'd let something slip. Without shifting his face, he felt his heart harden, the bitter traces of his old distrust flaring up through his veins; in a sense, it was disheartening to know that he couldn't trust anyone outside of the Plague circle. But to do so would be foolish, and pointless, most of all. He did not need them.

She reacted well to his polite query, and his black-rimmed ears flicked forward. While she was nowhere near as terrifying as Sumati to be around, he cautioned himself to be wary within. It would be foolish to let her niceness lure him in, not that he had many plans to spill to her — a few, sure, things that swam like sharks in the back of his mind, waiting for the time to strike, but nothing that affected the Plague. He was out on his own, with his own agenda.

"You've been busy," he commented dryly, meaning her variety of children; at least three, given that there was one son and two daughters. Maybe more? But who was he to speak — he had three children, too. But he kept a smile of his own from forming, sensing that there was something else she wished to tell, on the tail of the mention of a shadow. Not all was well in the Edge, and he bitterly remembered the fires they kept burning at all times — hating them for their disrespect towards the land who had seen enough of flames. Still, he dutifully followed her gaze west, glancing down briefly at the golden knot-work sun revealed by the shift in her mane. Well, wasn't that interesting. A follower of Sól, living with the Moon's whores? But he passed little judgment about it, knowing blind faith to be cursed whoever you followed — having done so himself, until the bitter pain of her betrayal drove it from his heart.

She looked back and he met her eyes, level and calm, though he felt ice drop like a weight in his gut, heart skipping a beat within his pale chest; gods, what did they know? Had they made the connection of ice and north? Had something else happened? He was too out of the loop, he hadn't met his herd in, what, half a season? Out on his own crusade, and he refrained from grinding his teeth together — merely arched his 'brows instead, a gesture of cool surprise. "No? Pray tell, what have we done this time?"

Killed your Doctor, perchance?