like breaking diamonds with your hands
There was one moment of utter stillness, of what tasted like peace—it was just him and the owls and the snowy mountains. The peculiar scent of northern spring lingered in the cold air, a season not like any other, and the world spread out before his blue, blue eyes. Lights flickered in the distance, and the owls glided on silent wings, drinking in this strange but familiar scene.
Mauja stood with his head raised, vaguely aware of that something felt different but unsure of what it was; too distracted by the sight of snow and lights mingling, transported back to a lost childhood, a stolen place. Sometimes he missed the easy days of just being a soldier, of knowing his place in those stone caverns and outlooks, taking refuge from the cold and the dark by a fire...
But there he was, standing on the foreign slopes of a foreign mountain range on a foreign world, and something he had never seen before (which was saying something) approached him through the snow.
It was...
He tried to think of what it reminded him of.
He tried to think of all the things he had seen in his long and wild and wondrous life, especially the twisted and wicked things in the Rift, but the closest he came anyway were the Magnar: the tribal polar bears, enemies of his ancestors. They, too, possessed the ability to walk upright in such a fashion, wore armor and weapons (those he recognized; he had a knife of his own, somewhere around here), but where they were thick and sturdy and covered in white fur, this one was, well, rather mediocre by those standards, and furless.
Wasn't that cold?
It was testament of his life lived as a powerful and magical being that he stayed put, just watching her with a horse's wariness: his head was raised, his eyes and ears displaying a certain disdain, yet the muscles in his hind end contracted slightly, ready to propel him out of there.
Mauja was a horse, meeting life nose-first, and though he was curious to a fault this fell outside of the known boundaries. He would run from a wolf, if the wolf proved too stubborn. He would run from this, if it turned out the same.
Or just impale her on an ice spike.
(Oh, you don't know about that loss yet, and believe me, it'll hit you hard.)
The thing raised its hands—he noticed a deceptive lack of claws or weaponry. It did not comfort him.
“Hey there, big boy… where’d you come from, huh?”
Mauja had been addressed by all manner of creatures over the years. That he somehow understood her surprised him less than her choice of words: big boy? Unbidden, his black-lined ears flicked forward. He was.. bemused. Intrigued. Unsure, because the way she spoke was so... Well. She was a snake, singing a sweet song.
If only you knew he thought in response, but whatever allowed him to understand did not allow him to speak. Uncertainly, he leaned back when she advanced further, wondering just how fast she could draw any of those impressive weapons and attack him. Faster than he could stab her?
Could he trust her? Could he trust a stranger, showing up in his face, and telling him that everything was alright?
Nothing was alright.
But Mauja had always been a composed creature. Mauja had always been the devil hiding behind a smile. So when her hands extended in what seemed a greeting, he put his great head forward, sharp, blue eyes on hers, and pushed his plush, black muzzle against her palm.
Mauja stood with his head raised, vaguely aware of that something felt different but unsure of what it was; too distracted by the sight of snow and lights mingling, transported back to a lost childhood, a stolen place. Sometimes he missed the easy days of just being a soldier, of knowing his place in those stone caverns and outlooks, taking refuge from the cold and the dark by a fire...
But there he was, standing on the foreign slopes of a foreign mountain range on a foreign world, and something he had never seen before (which was saying something) approached him through the snow.
It was...
He tried to think of what it reminded him of.
He tried to think of all the things he had seen in his long and wild and wondrous life, especially the twisted and wicked things in the Rift, but the closest he came anyway were the Magnar: the tribal polar bears, enemies of his ancestors. They, too, possessed the ability to walk upright in such a fashion, wore armor and weapons (those he recognized; he had a knife of his own, somewhere around here), but where they were thick and sturdy and covered in white fur, this one was, well, rather mediocre by those standards, and furless.
Wasn't that cold?
It was testament of his life lived as a powerful and magical being that he stayed put, just watching her with a horse's wariness: his head was raised, his eyes and ears displaying a certain disdain, yet the muscles in his hind end contracted slightly, ready to propel him out of there.
Mauja was a horse, meeting life nose-first, and though he was curious to a fault this fell outside of the known boundaries. He would run from a wolf, if the wolf proved too stubborn. He would run from this, if it turned out the same.
Or just impale her on an ice spike.
(Oh, you don't know about that loss yet, and believe me, it'll hit you hard.)
The thing raised its hands—he noticed a deceptive lack of claws or weaponry. It did not comfort him.
“Hey there, big boy… where’d you come from, huh?”
Mauja had been addressed by all manner of creatures over the years. That he somehow understood her surprised him less than her choice of words: big boy? Unbidden, his black-lined ears flicked forward. He was.. bemused. Intrigued. Unsure, because the way she spoke was so... Well. She was a snake, singing a sweet song.
If only you knew he thought in response, but whatever allowed him to understand did not allow him to speak. Uncertainly, he leaned back when she advanced further, wondering just how fast she could draw any of those impressive weapons and attack him. Faster than he could stab her?
Could he trust her? Could he trust a stranger, showing up in his face, and telling him that everything was alright?
Nothing was alright.
But Mauja had always been a composed creature. Mauja had always been the devil hiding behind a smile. So when her hands extended in what seemed a greeting, he put his great head forward, sharp, blue eyes on hers, and pushed his plush, black muzzle against her palm.
