That she proceeds to explain the artifact’s usages was a nice turn of events, and Dragomir was glad he had not been made to ask. While she explains, he listens carefully, his mind working over each new tidbit as it became available to him as it pertained to his life, rather than how this bird might have used it (though his lips tilt with a grin as she mentions its size being a definite issue – he can agree, what with her only being a raven).

Still, its size is of little matter to him, with his pouches, and his skill with carefully turning vine into rope, if he needs to bind the eternally leering Goddess skull to his harness, should it not fit within the bags themselves. As she can see his pouches, he doesn’t explain, and soon he finds himself so caught up in the stream of mental rambling that he forgets to reply for some time.

He also could not determine how much less gruesome a bone was than a skull; perhaps the bone did not stare at one blankly, but the bone was indecipherable as to what it might have been in a real body. Looking at it now, he found he did not care for the misplaced parts of a being, the things that he could not know from where or what it had come with a spare glance. Was it the absence of rational? Without the comfort of what to cleave to, was his heart really so quavering?

At least he could recall the Goddess’ face, stricken with rage, as her great claws swiped and maimed. What part of the body was he to recall when he looked at this? Dragomir did not know. He was not a physician, or one who tended to the dead, and neither was he a necromancer, who was, in ways, a little of both… Regardless, the painted thinker hadn’t the slightest notion what sort of bone that was on the sand, and it disconcerted him to look upon the remains of such a powerful creature as the Goddess with such skepticism.

So, he thinks of other things.

Was it her power, that allowed one to look through solid matter, or was it the power of the one who had kept it? What a curious Goddess the Tigress had been indeed, if she had shared with Dragomir the love of creation, and the things to behold in the natural world around them. Was that why she had given him the boon, though he had done little more than defend the wounded?

How curious, also, then, that this raven had a love for things, too.

What was it his mother had always said? “Life is a circle,” he wants to say, but that is too simple, and probably just his logical mind’s interpretation of his mother’s eloquent wisdom. Still, life was a circle, one which led him about on a path that never went anywhere it wasn’t supposed to, and always seeming to trail back into itself. Coming back up out of his thoughts, his blue eyes clarifying into intelligently glimmering ice tones as he again sees the raven and her dragon, not just stares upon them, Dragomir is to the point.

"I accept your offer," he rumbles, his hooves still stationary beneath him, "we can go now, or I can meet you at a location of your choosing at a later date."

While he often meanders on his own time with an aimlessness envied by bards and vagabonds alike, Dragomir attentively schedules his meetings; they were, after all, the life blood of a crafter, if he was the travelling sort, as he’d been during his days in the Edge. As a side note, assuming the raven to be a rogue (why else steal?), the stallion doesn’t suggest summoning the Earth in their shared herd land; having missed the last meeting by a week or so, Dragomir has been aware that his second Czarina is called the Mountain That Knows (courtesy of Syrena, at the borders of Helovia), but very little else of her.

So little, in fact, he could probably talk directly to her, without a single idea who he conversed with…

[ OOC: Lirl just you get ready for those heart palpitations, Drago buddy. ]

Dragomir