Accident, yeah, right.

His snort of laughter is audible and blunt on the chilly autumn air, the humor in his smile jilted only slightly by the twinge of guilt that brightens in his heart. He isn’t really sure how to reply. He could be honest – that he has been nervous, that he has looked over his shoulder for the black mare come to pin his head to a post or the earth toned one who had come the defense and promised vengeance. He could say that he was more worried that Mirage would discover his actions, and that the presence of Ricochet here at the wall only heightened his paranoia.

Instead, he decides to lie. Well, not really lie, but bend the truth if only slightly.

"Well enough," rumbles his overly deep voice, "can’t say that clearing feels the same way." Thankfully for the willow trees, the rain had quench the flames before they had grown to out of hand, but he had since been back to see the blackened remnants of his sin. The only blessing in it all was that, in the spring, the ashes would feed the earth and allow it to flourish more fully.

He catches the woman’s name from Ricochet and nods a greeting to her, the motion swallowed by her sharp rebuttal towards the buckskin. Dragomir’s eyebrows rise slightly at the mild irritation in her voice, wondering what sort of drama had driven the rift between the mare known as Evangeline and his new friend.

His smile returns into its full, awkward warmth as she softens her attitude towards himself, however; thankful that her irritations only go so far as Ricochet (he knows women can sometimes be… less than reasonable in such matters), he listens to her introduction of both herself and the splendid orange she kept for company. "It is good to meet you both," he amiably states.

His amiable nature doesn’t extend so far, however, as to openly welcome the unicorn when she arrives.

The mare must have also been from Isilme, driving his inquiries of the place back into his throat as he turned pale eyes to look upon her. She is called Nyx, which he remembers with little interest in comparison to the equines present, but he does rather enjoy the buds of conversation that bloom from her arrival; the Emerald Valley, a place where his father had ruled at one point.

Apparently Szello and Vihar had not lied when they had returned with tales that Isilme was being torn from the roots up; by their word, Dragomir had not been allowed to venture out into the old home of his parents, and it had always been a bitter truth until this moment of clarity. It wouldn’t have been safe for him to go, after all.

"An interesting gathering this is, then," he muses at the close of the chestnut woman’s words, his smile amused at the thought that all those present were somehow connected, even if he was, as usual, the odd man out, "I haven’t ever been there, but my parents come from Isilme, also."

Its not that he doesn’t notice the lingering tension between the other two equines present; he just chooses to ignore it.