There was a girl, lying among the moss.

She’d been there for some time, morosely slumping there with the occasional movement that ushered his eyes back to her from a peripheral glance. Of all the things the cavern, only this girl and the writing etched into the walls drew his interest, for neither seemed to be a part of a whole, just as he himself often felt as if he was adrift on life and wonder rather than directing its aim towards his true purpose.

He’d been following the hieroglyphs on the wall for nearly thirty feet, observing each and struggling to piece together whatever story they seemed to want to tell him. He’d never seen letters before, or any such symbolism, and while he did not know they were for reading or even what reading was, he felt as if they were words without sound.

The girl was also without sound, he noticed, but she wore a horn and wasn’t one he recognized, and so he hesitated to go and bother her about whatever it was that had her so sullen. It was likely she was just lonely, like he was, and while meeting her would cure both of their ailments it was not something Dragomir felt was on his agenda today, and so his eyes return to the markings on the walls of stone. It was probably better this way, he assures himself, still not entirely trusting of his composure since this incident so long ago with Ricochet.

He had not seen that one since coming to the caverns, either, and it made him worry.

It was not as if there was a broad world within their safe haven; surely he would have seen the little, scar covered man here if he was here to see.

It might just be better that way, he settles on, just as he notices the girl rising and moving to a different location on the moss, though her body conveys feelings of curiosity rather than the sadness it did before. He himself feels curious now, keeping his eyes on the scene as she discovers something smooth and round in the padded bedding, and he finds himself smiling on the scene, albeit bittersweet a gesture from so far away.

He longs for a companion of his own, and sorely wonders if it is the egg of a dragon. Deciding that his interest has risen too high to let it go, he meanders his way over towards the young woman on muscular, tall legs.

"Hello," rumbles the deep ocean of his voice, a bass thick and luxurious as crème.

He found that he towered over her, even if she were to be standing. Most amusing are the ways of distance, he thinks, how one cannot tell how large or small something is from as far away as he had been. A soft smile touches his handsome chocolate features, black feather dangling from the tangled locks above his right wither and a pine branch woven into the striped mess of his tail.

The egg is not a dragon’s, unless the dragon is small. It does not wash his smile away any.

It only makes him think of his mother and his own dreams to have found what this girl has.