( Backdated, takes place after this thread. Snö and Aury (?) first, then anyone from the herd is welcome. ^^ )

Evening, light breezes.

It had been a pleasant surprise waiting for him in the Threshold - none other than a very familiar snow-powdered semi-chestnut frost-covered filly, albeit slightly larger than the one he'd held in his mind's eye for so long. In his memory, she'd been small; in his mind, he'd wondered how she'd grown, and even tried to picture it a few times, but he had no previous experience of rearing foals and no filly of a similar age to reference against. It wasn't until he saw her in reality that he realized how much time he'd spent thinking about her, and how much time he'd spent trying to not think about Psyche. And it wasn't until he saw her in reality that he realized how much love he'd kept pent up in his heart, with no outlet. It was like relief, having a burden off your shoulders, to see her alive, have her by his side again - know that she was where she wanted to be, and that it was with him. That Aurelius had shown up had been a good distraction, because otherwise he likely would've been overcome with haywire emotions. Snö had soon lost patience with them, and taken off at a run to the Edge. They'd been left with no real option besides following her, and he'd been content with their pace. Snö was a foal still and Aurelius was short, so they'd been evenly matched in pace after a while, and Mauja had stayed with them despite being able to outrun them both.

It wasn't until the Edge came into sight that he nudged her neck in passing, calling out "Race ya!" and disappearing to the thunder of hooves over dry earth. It trembled beneath him as he took off, knowing it was a foul move to leave his kid and herd mate to eat dust, but he had a feeling Snö wouldn't approve of a staged victory. Or she was going to chew him out for winning, because he was larger. Perhaps she'd do both, as in, no matter what he did she'd find something to growl about to him. Tossing his head he let his body work, enjoying the steady rhythm of both legs and heart, the feeling of the wind whispering across his skin as the shadows lengthened, deepened. The sun set in a spectacular display of blood and vibrant orange, before paling out into peach and violet. Soon the darkness from the east would claim the heavens and bring with it its entourage of stars, flocking around the Moon herself. The ground slanted upwards but Mauja powered on, not caring about the sweat that lathered his flanks and chest as his large hooves found footing. It felt good to run, as if he could outrun the misery of the weather, the misery of the world, the misery of everyfuckingthing.. But it would catch up, as it always did, and then he'd be stuck in it again until he grew strong enough to right the wrongs of the world. Having Snö back made it feel lighter, more possible.

He plunged into a world of charred, broken trees, scattered burnt-off limbs and a carpet of ash. There, on the border of his home, the monarch stopped, sides heaving and nostrils wide, gulping in the briny air. Still, there was nothing exhausted about him, just something quietly triumphant and regal - his head was tall, tail lifted slightly, something youthful in his cold-colored gaze. A breeze stirred his mane and tail, tugging at his black feathers, and when foal and herd mate came into view he gave them a rakish grin. "Welcome Snö," he said, eyes taking on a sad cast. "To my ruined home, the Edge." Following the words came a deep, thundering cry, carried off by the winds to echo among the trees; there was new blood, to meet.

L E N A
reaching as I sink down into light

She was nomadic again, a wandering sylph immersed in cloaked shadows, rustling amongst the assuaging forest, awakened by the melancholic heartstrings of the forest’s silent agonies. While the nocturnal eaves stroked soothing winds amongst the churning leaves, there were still fixtures of ash collected on their fine filaments, their silken brushstrokes, their cool, green veins that spread like whimsical fingers. Sorrowful, lamenting throngs, clinging to a livelihood taken from them, sullied, soiled, and blemished forms, crooning tirades of a grieving aperture. Damage committed, done, finalized in the rubble and ruin of burnt timber and fallen logs, crisp fronds that snapped, fragmented, at the slightest hint of air, the torn limbs and mantles of embers. Fragility, mortality, and demise daunted and divined; the tragic pulse of victims that could not save themselves. The scarred remnants were a constant reminder of powers beyond their means, of toiling, turbulent foes, of a searing, scalding wrath ignited, then left for mortals to pick up the discarded shards, pieces of potency none of them could touch or rekindle.

Yet, where there is calamity and devastation, there is also rebirth and renewal. From the wreckage, tombs misplaced amongst charred graveyards, the children of the forest would rise once more, peek at wide-open sunshine and lift their silk petals at the alluring gaze of rainclouds. Cracked rubble would be turned to lush, verdant greenery, patches of ash forgotten, lost in the bloom of a christened palisade. Flora and fauna would breathe, stretch, and reclaim their former spots, awash in the glow of new dormitories painted in the façade of an old home. There would no longer be the stifling cry of misery, stiff in the harsh despair, flickering in the hardened murmurs of sedition – merely the sweet, nurturing song of regeneration; the renaissance of the Edge’s cracked, disheveled corridors.

And, from the looks of it, the icy sovereign had received his own renascence.

She heard them first, hooves dancing over acrid, parched loam, clambering in pitches of lengthened, haughty strides and smaller, delicate paces. From beneath the strokes of the curling leaves, she peeked out over the rampant hillsides, sienna eyes searching for the masterful courts of whimsical movers - dauntless, audacious despite the vicious sun’s leftovers, the striking, stifling humidity. In the moonlight, they glowed, similar, supreme beings of descending, seraphic plumage, luminous, radiant. Stars flickering against a dry, starved horizon, offering worthy sentiments of divinity – she smiled, then proceeded to turn, not willing to encroach upon such tender moments. However, moments thereafter, the glacial monarch bestowed a deep, rolling cry, a deafening deliverance, a harkening to meet the one, who undoubtedly in their picture frames, was intertwined within his soul. Staring into the abyss of the evening’s tresses, she briefly ruminated; after all, he’d requested his followers to join and encounter the scion. Gathering herself, she hastened another dance amongst the forest and out of the char, gentle air and lissome water, billowing from the sanguine depths of honeyed, whimsical delights – and popped out from the containments of leafy brethren that covered her regal crown, some fronds dipping into her compassionate eyesight. She nodded once to the Edge King then settled her enlightened grin upon the child. “I'm Lena." She dipped her head, goofy giggle bubbling from her throat, insatiable and pleasant. “And who are you?"

It was a good thing that he was a marble statue, a pillar of ice, for the small form of Snö skidding to a halt and pushing softly against him didn't even ruffle him. He didn't sway as she regained herself, merely turned his large head around to peer at her. Perhaps she'd been so focused on maneuvering the foreign terrain to look at his backside and see that he'd stopped. Whatever the case, he gave her a small smirk-smile and fondly nipped her forelock. She seemed to be a bundle of energy and pride, but there was something about her as well, something playful, like she'd inherited both her parents' taste for mischief and somehow it had duplicated in her. Mauja didn't mind in the least. What was life without laughing, without playing silly little tricks, without the silent mockery he so often practiced at the expense of the lesser? He was hardly a saint yet tried to give off the air of being one, but he couldn't teach Snö the ways of saints, could he? No. He couldn't have her ending up like those Foothills fools, fouling her pristine blood and dimming the passion she ought to hold for her race. But did that mean that he had to keep her from smiling? No. Mauja smiled all the time, even when plotting murder.

"No," he told her gently in the wake of his cry. With a sweeping motion he gestured at the charred trees stretching out to either side, except behind them. "The Sun God burned this part down, but it's just the face of the forest. Further in, it's better." But not good... So much misery remained in their thirst, browned leaves and crunched grasses, only dust rolling gently to the wind in the beds of creeks. The monarch heaved a half-sad sigh, leaning in to breathe onto her forehead, just below her horn. It would be hard, he realized, to lean his muzzle on her poll without spearing himself on her natural weapon. Sometimes he wondered if it was some mockery to the unicorn race, to keep them distant and cold-blooded by adding a cuddle-prevention mechanism in their gene pool... but then again, it bred creativity; you had to find ways around impaling yourself, encouraging sharpness of the mind. He hummed softly under his breath, nudging her before turning to look at the forest. Moonlight painted them silver, slowly drawing a graying shadow across his pupils; the night did things to him, sometimes, and the breeze ruffled his feathers as if to remind him of the things that were to come. But that was not the reason he looked aside. The sound of movement had his ears flickering, nostrils sucking the air deep into his lungs.

Lena. He was glad she was coming to meet them, for she was a tender, loving individual, but one he had a hard time communicating with successfully. Aurelius had brought her home - Aurelius, who had excused himself to go eat and rest and sleep and do whatever else Aureliuses did. Mauja was fond of the short stag. He was fond of pretty much everyone in his herd. When the Spanish mare finally made her way into the light, silver rippled along the edges of her musculature, graying her rich bay, muting it slightly. She was graceful in the moonlight, her elegance further highlighted by the monochrome light washing across her. A deep whicker rumbled in his chest. He would let her speak for herself, but not let her go unwelcomed. Sometimes he ran across individuals like her, those with whom communication did not flow easily, like a stream of water, but rather was jagged, often flowing off in a different direction, not quite fitting the frame. Misunderstandings had been aplenty between them, and he felt bad for it. Often, his lack of verbal, visual appreciation dimmed her radiance, and tonight she seemed somber all of her own, even though she smiled warmly at his child. Mauja would let her, too, speak for herself, and simply leaned in to give his herd sister a bump of his warm muzzle against her arched neck. Sweaty as he was, he had no desire to slip closer to her and rub the grime off on her. She was far too pretty to sully in such a fashion.

L E N A
reaching as I sink down into light

Rejection, acerbic and abrasive, resonated. The filly’s glacial stance was enough to cement the reeling conjecture of rebuff, spurning the beneficence of the swan’s candor. Oh, she knew this pain, recognized this old companion of the dust, ash and earth. I remember you, a ghostly, spider sensation across my nape, spinning lies in my ears and twisting abuse in my eyes. I had wished to never see you again. Is it my weakness now, to relive the phantoms of youth? Like a cool, cruel knife, it pierced, slashed, and severed with a chilling, glacial caress, incised and toiled with a forlorn, puncturing nuance. The nymph was au courant with the feeling, the reeling, the slicing, crushing sentiments of a world she hoped had been lost to her, in nefarious nightmares, arduous agonies and bestial banes that no longer existed. But the tremulous wake was upon her anew, horrors that lingered in her blood, heinously, ruthlessly, tangled with other childish wonders and juvenile torments, billowing and pervading the senses of her intrepid entity. A monstrous shadow, it plucked at warmth, snatched at tenderness, cackled at affability, drifting and drenching with the sordid calamity of presaged tortures, reliving the wretched portals of another time, another place. Scalding at her seams, the bitter, rancorous notions of worthlessness scraped, tore, ripped, bit, clawed at her lungs, at her heart, at her mind, until the anguish seemed nothing more than a discordant echo; the siren calls of prior threats, previous perils, preceding menaces. She remembered begging for forgiveness, recalled the fierce, blinding stings, the subsequent desolation, the carved misery laced and lanced into her fragmented carcass. And now – now incited torture clung to her armaments, the collection of fortitude, resilience and courage she’d gathered along the primrose path, ominously, sinisterly, promised to peel away the precious shards and slivers of her valiant core. It burned and scorned, melted and screeched, a strident, cacophonous tenor, singing petulant, resentful chords, provocations she couldn’t hope to match, couldn’t long to conceive. What have I done to earn your disdain again? What have I done to inspire your ire once more? Don’t tear me down, not when I’ve finally become strong.

But because she was formidable, mighty, resolute and potent, she didn’t quaver, shudder or tremble. She smiled.

She ignored the toiling foils, the seething tortures, the heathenous trappings screaming in her ears, drew from collapse of yesteryear and sculpted radiance in the aching, gnawing fractiousness. The smoking, stinging lacerations were discarded with an enlightened grin, the savage, ferocious tidings were shunned with a warm, honeyed gaze, and the puissance of her ethereal power flashed against the looming, affecting memories – they hovered, but didn’t touch, taint or stain the ethereal quality of her composure, her own version of divine vengeance. While her mind reeled, her portal remained pristine, immaculate, crown hardly tipping, tiara hardly slipping. The stalwart convictions beat swiftly at her heart, fluttered like a tender bird, elegantly incensed, fluidly postured in her benevolent form, returning the soft touch of the sovereign with a smooth bump to his spotted neck. And the filly, the child that stirred so many poignant, painful memories in her cranium, received the same beam, the same twinkle from her soul, bestowing an unaffected nuance while inwardly she struggled to maintain the laureled poise, come away little lamb, come away, out of the darkness and into the light. Perhaps this girl, this scion of snow and ice, despised her, loathed her, but Lena would never act so rashly, so heinously, upon one she didn’t know. Soothingly, she reached into her soul and pulled on the taffeta strings, postured a dulcet, swinging melody from her lips – no ill will, no strife, no acrimony for a youth that had bewildered her senses, consumed her mind with traces of old pain, old horror. “A pleasure, Snö.” But, the child would not get what she wanted – if she wished for Lena to flee, to rush away into the nocturnal trappings, then she had underestimated the vehemence of the sylph. Instead, she recalled the soft croons, the silken threads, mused in her same jovial disposition, stubbornly refusing to recoil from a child’s brazen, petulant impulses. “Would you like to play a game? We can get your father to join.” She laughed again, high and lilting, sweet and warm, and tried desperately to leave no traces of her sadness, of her layered heartache.

Scales shifted and tipped, and for a brief moment, it felt like the very earth tilted and tried to make him slide off the end and into some deep, dark void. Instead of everything he had expected, pictured, there was something cold and creeping, menacing. Where he had hoped for shy warmth and budding affection, there was only unyielding steel, a silent demand in his child's posture. Even as Lena's velvet muzzle touched his sweaty neck did Snö wriggle in between them, trying to push the mare away; her entire pose screamed go away, and Mauja found himself unable to do anything but stare at her for a moment. What was happening, what was going on? What was wrong? What did she have against Lena? Surely they'd not met before... So why the protective, angry stance, the short, clipped vocals? Was she afraid that he would go away, and leave her alone? A foolish fear, if so. With confusion written in his eyes he tried to catch Lena's gaze, apologize silently, wordlessly, to her. And as he did, the question kept echoing in his skull: what just happened?

"Snö," he said gently, quietly, reaching down to touch his pale muzzle to her shoulder. A stubby mane ran up her neck, white speckled with a few hairs of chestnut - just like her body, drops of dried blood spilled across something pure. He still recalled the sight of her, only minutes old. Could he ever see enough of her? "It's alright." What could he possibly say to soothe his angry child? He had no desire to make her uncomfortable, to make her feel undervalued, nor could he let her get away with what she was doing - she had to learn that he had a herd, a family so much larger than Mauja and Snö alone. She had to learn, and accept, the bond he had with them, and the affection he showed them. Still, it was a fool's hope that she would listen to his quiet words, but when it came to this, he was one.

Lena's gentle voice rippled around them like clear water; to him, it was soothing and comforting, but what did it sound like in the ears of his child? What had sparked her dislike, anyway? Did she want to monopolize Mauja? If so - wouldn't it be okay if they played, then, as long as he did not? Confused, and slightly hurt and deeply troubled beneath all the layers of glacial ice, he remained silent for a moment. Would Snö allow herself to be drawn into play? It was a question he could not answer for her, but he leaned his muzzle down to give her hip an encouraging nod, before glancing up at Lena again. The first time he'd met her, he'd wondered if she was simple of mind, for her joy had seemed so entirely at odds with the darkness of the world - but since then, he had learned that there was something sharp and clever beneath the warmth and energy of her mood. Had she understood what Snö was saying, poised so roughly between them, but simply ignored it? If so, it was an admirable display of control, something he had, once more foolishly, not believed her capable of.

And yet there she stood, smiling like the sun, as if nothing was wrong at all.

L E N A
reaching as I sink down into light

Control and composure, a carefully maintained prowess encompassed her soul; with a vigilant delicacy, it scoured the haunted, hollow eaves of her once transparent void, enshrouding the portal of her ethereal grace with an assiduous armor. When her heart was scorched by the ill tidings of passing contempt, it remembered the warped, tenacious bindings of a ruthless realm, and reclaimed a place, deep within her singsong aria, that could remain tethered, corporeal and tangible, not swept away by the cruel echoes of soot, cinders and grime. This was her pinnacle of strength: perseverance and determination against the thick walls of disdain and derision. She wasn’t fierce, proclaiming barbs of animosity and acrimony against villains, she wasn’t ferocious, gliding ivories upon constant injustices, but, layered amongst her reverent essence was a humble, formidable, and compelling power, drawn, brushed, and traced from the seams of her compassionate resolve. In the face of anger, she was the soothing wind, in the arches of tyranny, she was the slender bird, and in the wake of a terrible memory, a slashing, scalding moment of scorn, she was the elegant, noble, ardent light amongst the heinous, hostile, nefarious waves of darkness. Sometimes she didn’t feel young, but older, so drenched and soiled in the lace of loathing, because she had seen too many things, because she had cried too many times, because she’d sang too many songs that were stolen from her mouth. In another interval, she felt like she was a child again, because she was lost once more, thrown to the searing pinnacles of rubble and ruin. Other days, when she believed their harsh words, she felt like nothing. She watched and witnessed, the refined, dignified, regal Lena, posturing her warm eyes to the child. She dared not look elsewhere, not to the sovereign’s apologetic, confused gaze, not to the luminous beams casting regal shades upon a tense juncture, not to the ground, frozen and reeling in the chambers of beauty and suspense. She didn’t want these other knowing, scrupulous mortals and portals to see anything else, not the possible slip of her veil nor the hurt candor of a forgotten time – the benevolent stare was reserved for the ice scion, for the workings of a resentful, covetous babe. She continued to stand there, her lips poised into a smile, her brow dainty, relaxed, quiet, hushed limbs not breaking the rendered, auspicious chill of silence.

The youth barely relented to her offering, still petulant, still fractious, still immersed in the tender nuances of a daughter unwilling to give away her father’s presence and indulgences, even to a gentle creature that had no urge to take them. She could almost see the child at war with herself, to yield to the whimsical fancies presented, or to continue her sulky storm, in hopes of driving away something she believed foul and unworthy. When the sylph is given the snow babe’s consent, Lena’s gentle grin prospered ever further, a glimpse of relief blooming amongst sienna cheeks and a serene countenance. She doesn’t even comment at the last command of the girl. It’s almost a laughable statement, but Lena remained polite and cordial, only once kindling a daring decree to glance at the mentioned monarch and not chuckle. No, Mauja couldn’t ever bear the resemblance of her own sire, chiseled and cast from the stone of inky shadows – she dwelled and pondered no further than that. Instead, she gently draped her maw over Snö’s head, before tapping the crown once, twice, softly, playfully, with the velvet underside. Vocals were delivered once more along the dulcet croons of an unbroken hymn, sliding along a springing hum. “Hide and seek? Or do you have another suggestion?”

With each passing second, with Snö uncertainly looking to him and back, with Lena remaining open, inviting, he felt the confusion within him only grow. Why did everything have to be complicated? Why did Psyche have to run away? Why did Snö have to want to monopolize him? Of course, they'd just reunited - and the next couple of days would surely be spent with her day and night, but he was a stallion. He ran a herd. He had duties, and after a fashion, friends. So he found himself hoping her obsession would wear off, the flames fall to embers of affection, a level that kept their bond intact without incinerating him and his life. His muzzle hovered in the vicinity of her hindquarters, breathing onto her and drawing in her scent with each breath, storing it in his memory. And Lena... Surely she knew what was going on. Her gaze was so focused, so intent on his child, and had Snö been him - would she have felt a stab of jealousy, a fear of having her child taken? Should he? Was he wrong, for not feeling it?

All he wished was for them to be friends, so Snö would not mind being left without Mauja from time to time. He did not think Lena had it in hear to "steal" his child, much less to corrupt her against him. And so he merely smiled, murmuring "of course I am," and briefly being amused by the notion of Lena being his daughter, too. That would've been hard - complicated.

But no. Snö was his first, the apple of his eye, and the one in whom his faith lay, whether or not he remembered to tell her every day. He hoped for time to temper her tongue and instill something analytical in her mind, but who can blame a child? In his own way, he'd let her know that treating Lena like this was unacceptable, but nothing good could come from an attempt at punishment. Perhaps actually engaging in play, as she reluctantly allowed, would be "punishment" enough. "Good girl," he murmured into her downy foal pelt, brushing one front leg against her side and giving her an encouraging nudge. "I'm old and stiff, so show her what youth is like, hm?" he encouraged his daughter in a playful whisper, darting his head in under Lena's to brush his soft muzzle against Snö's poll. Perhaps she would make a point of including him now? He wouldn't mind, at least he didn't think he would. But he was, after all, a stiff old war King. He had to try to put up some resistance before giving in.