The day grew long and lazy before him, the subtle drone of the bees whispering over the croon of the warm wind that pulled dark grey and shining silver clouds through the sky. Dragomir walks with his thoughts on few things, for once, simply enjoying the sky’s few fleeting moments of light and dryness before it unleashed the storm it was bringing in. Purposefully, he’d skirted around the Grove of Bad Memories, his mind silently perusing the stock of items he had back home and eyes watching for more things to add to his collection. Its not that he’s noticed, but all his wandering and assisting of his herd with tasks like retrieving the cart within the caves had added to his mass considerably, the young male building muscle quickly and evenly until he was a formidable force to behold, tall and strong.

So passive was the inquisitive lad in nature, however, that he rarely noticed his size at all unless presented with some one very small or actually taller than he was, more adept at labeling people by their species and demeanor rather than how weak or powerful one was. If he did take the time to think about it, he would realize that he is much kinder than many raised with the ideals he still clings to, in ways; he cannot understand that to not seek others for what they can give to you but rather for who they are is a sign of goodness rather than evil.

All he knows is that he lives between two worlds, this new beautiful kingdom and an old one that he had never even seen. It’s no wonder that his heart is so easily pulled into the way that the Edge functions, a herd of unity and patience, but it is also hard on him when he tries to find logic between the two moral sets. The old laws told him that his breed was sacred, and more worthy of the admiration of the Gods than any other. The old laws taught him that to mingle with other species, even in friendship, was wrong.

But the laws of the misty wood were far different than those he had come here with, strange and not the sort to easily fit into his father’s teachings. For instance, the Gods of this land were all the species in one body, something that defied every sense of logic that upheld the philosophies of Isilme; he was left with only the decision that while they were a part of each, it was the equine species who would appear most loyal and strong in their eyes, a change of teachings from the mass slaughter or neglect of all not equine to the acceptance of those who weren’t as he was, an inner drive to be stronger and more honorable than any others he met.

That he had made friends among the hybrids and winged people of Helovia was perhaps the most deeply disturbing thought to him, no matter how hard he tried to rationalize their existence in his life as a means to gain more honor. It was hardest when he thought of how pretty Semira was when the sun leaned against her frame (they had just come this way, not even a week past), or how sweet Alysanne could be when she felt comfortable among her company and slipped out from her shell; strongest in his mind, still, was the offer of Quilyan, their winged keeper of secrets, how easily he had placed his life before the others. If there was such valor among the dragons of the Edge, then how truly wicked could his friendships with them be? His chosen people, ones he chose to stay among even after their Weyrleader had faded and a new era had risen in her absence, were not the people of his father’s land, but they were certainly less cruel than Ricochet had been even with their strange divines.

Softly he thinks on these things, not distressed for once, truly just pondering on the things he has been told and what he has seen, how they contradict one another on a daily basis and leave him lost and reeling. He does not want to be this man anymore. He wants to be strong, to grow roots and flourish, to forget the evils that he has already committed and to reach his branches high in the heavens of this strange, magical place he has come to love so dearly.


@[Sheba]