The voice is familiar, one he had thought to belong to a dead man who had left behind only a cart in the belly of the darkness.

At first, he wonders if it’s a ghost, but then the smell of blood reaches his nostrils, and he tenses where he once loped easily forward towards the sound of the summons near the gate. As with most who lived through the onslaught of the wraiths, the combination of a dead man and the stench of blood makes him hesitate in his speed and become all the more aware of his surroundings, large hooves beating the earth rhythmically as he stretches his legs long in a trot, ears alert and blue eyes flashing wearily as he nears the final ring of trees that hide him from who he hopes is only Destrier.

Not, however, Destrier wearing the putrid cloak of that disease.

The jangle of the feather and branch against his neck comforts him, reminding him that, even in times of absolute darkness, there is golden light, a ring of hope. Ranjiri, himself, Kahlua; they all stood testament to the strength of the soul, its ability to return to whatever shape it held before life had pummeled it into a tight ball of pain and regrets.

Taking a deep breath before he slips through the trees, his eyes are wide and searching as he looks for the figure that has called them to the border, finding the same proud black stallion that had vanished into the darkness as which had left but for a few horrific changes. At first, Dragomir slams his hooves down into the ground and stands with head held aloft and ears prone to the figure of the lost knight, eyes searching the gruesome details along the stallion’s frame for any sign of plague, infestation beyond just the gnats that swarm them, but the stag is still and calm, not insidious and coated in the putrid stench and guise of death, and so little by the little the young man’s heart still its frantic beating and he stares openly at the man with the green dragon.

Dragon.

"I thought you’d died," he says, partially awed that he is not a ghost or an infected devil. The others had not kept their companions, while broken. He smiles, feeling all of his anxiety melt from him as he lets loose a nervous and apologetic nicker in direction of the black knight, wonder now finding purchase in the foot holes of his thoughts as to what has become this poor soul as to leave such strange wounds.

It looks like he’s rubbed his back raw against the earth and then had his dragon lash his sides with her tail for good measure, all while running full speed towards a metal cord whilst gnawing it between his teeth, so crude are the marks along his build and the bloody crevices of his lips.

It’s…simply preposterous, to think he did such an insane thing; not that he’d known him well, but Destrier seemed the good solid sort, an honorable and quiet man. And so he does the only sensible thing one can do in such a situation.

He asks.

"What the hell happened?" he blurts, not really meaning to sound as rude as he has come off and immediately smiling in an awkward, apologetic way as he trots the few steps between them to ease the passing of their words, "the wraiths didn’t do that to anyone else." It explained both his befuddlement and the odd way in which he’d greeted the dark stallion, hoping he was smart enough to catch the meaning hidden in between his words and smiling, albeit a bit worriedly, towards the man he figured he’d never see again.




Dragomir</style>
where light shines, shadows will stretch</style>