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

At least they could talk of children, without fear of wolves bursting out of the woods to steal them. Mauja didn't make a habit of kidnapping the kids of others. From him they were safe, at least for now, though for how much longer? Some part of him was slipping into the familiar past, coming to terms with the brand of being a beast, and the accidents – heck, this one had been.. But it was so easy to slide into that mindset, the place he'd carved out for himself in a nook of his soul, all smiles and softness while something so much darker roiled beneath. His lips wanted to quirk into a disapproving grimace at the revelation of it being a mix-blood daughter, one who flew, and he wondered why – not why she had a winged daughter, but why he felt that way. He walked easily among the hornless these days, treated some of them as comrades and even felt a sting of remorse at knowing what he would have to do one day.. so why did this remnant of the past flicker into life? And what was he supposed to do with it? Quench it? Nurture it?

As it was, he didn't really do anything about it – just settled back in that comfortable alcove of ice, snuggling deeper into the snow, allowing instinct to guide him while his mind spun quickly, thoughts and plans sparking into life before disappearing again. Somehow, he found that time seemed to slow when he visited that part of himself, like the world somehow accommodated his need for thinking, but such a thing was just foolish to think...

He felt his heart beat swiftly in his chest, burdened with adrenaline even as his face betrayed nothing of the discomfort. What did the Edge know? Too much, his instinct was telling him, and he waited for her ears to fall back and the scathing accusations to start falling. And how could he deny the truth if she guessed it? How could he not claim Torasin's death? Mauja's blue eyes kept blinking at a sedate pace, not missing a beat. "One of yours has stolen one of ours..." Well, that was news. He hadn't known, but then again, how could he have known? "But one of our Glaziers witnessed your Time Mender murdering his mother." He had to keep himself from laughing – how ironic wasn't it? He and d'Artagnan, by accident or decision, both killed members of the same herd at around the same time. But instead of chuckling, as he doubted Smoke found death a laughing matter, he schooled his face to something akin to sorrowful. "d'Artagnan," he said softly, almost bitterly, but there were no such emotions in his heart. Instead, he found himself surprised by the contentment of knowing that someone at least still did their duty. Had it been ordered, or a chance taken?

"I am sorry for your losses, Smoke." And in a sense, he was – most of all for the golden gentleman frozen over in the east, because he still hadn't meant to. He'd never be able to change that fact, only what he did with the aftermath. For a moment he toyed with the idea of telling her, just to see her face when she heard him say I killed him, but that satisfaction would be nothing against the wrath of the herd. And there was no way he could bring that down on the unsuspecting Basin while he still gallivanted around down here. No. That secret would have to remain a secret a little longer. "Does this mean you are stepping up to fill his role?" He didn't quite know what else to say, remembered she had spoken of changing tack after leaving the Foothills – and somewhere, he dimly thought that if she said yes, it would rank her a little higher on the hit list.

Had he always been like this in the past? Contemplating their murder while pretending to be their friend?
He had a hunch he had.