[ OOC; Dragomir has brought some comfrey and yarrow to help heal up those wounded in the battle, if anyone is interested. Also, those who I've previously talked to about meeting up with him are very welcome. :D And I didn't post this under Illynx at first. Nopeeeee. ]

Fate; she curved under the moon, danced with the subtle movement of the air about his breathing nostrils, and all the time that he pondered her mysteries he pondered how rather fateful life seemed to be as of late. At first, he had figured only that his young heart simply aspired more from the world, logic coating his decision to venture to Helovia in the first place. That he had been taken in by none other than a queenly beauty known as Mirage, the DragonHeart, had ticked a few boxes in his coincidence registry, heightened by the appearance of her daughter, who was part of the obvious reason that the queen of the forest had the title she wore. While he was still unsure about the lady and the princess as far as whether he could trust them or if Aarde (or his father, for that matter) would have blasted them into oblivion or not by now. Regardless, he was incapable of blasting anyone he had met so far, as far as he was concerned, even young Semira, her innocent eyes and prettily crafted face among the myriad things he simply could not push out of his mind, one of the reasons that he found he could not strike at her as his father had trained him to do, despite that what made her, in part, so stunning to behold was the very fact that she was wrong.

Had Adalwulf ever been so conflicted in his youth? Dragomir found that he doubted the notion, quite severely.

What he did not doubt, however, was that his heart had not led him wrong to follow the gold marked shadow mare to her home; in one singular lesson with the resident healer, Dragomir had learned of four herbs to help with the easing of pain as well as to make bleeding slow or cease, the images of the plants fresh in his mind as he carried on with each passing day, making a note to himself to review the knowledge anytime he could afford the time. Sadly for him, there was a plethora of minutes at his disposal; his reclusive nature had left him with few friends, though he was beginning to recognize the faces of those who kept patrols, those who were crafters (as they tinkered away upon the wall), and other staple members of the herd. Their strangeness, however, kept him from drawing to close to any of them, the solitary male preferring to wander the woods when few others seemed to be out, retiring to a dense copse of trees with only one slender wildlife trail in and out that he had discovered near the edge of the forest, where the trees fell away to reveal a sprawling grassland.

Most recently, however, there had been an influx of war within the misty wood. Dragomir himself had remained far out of the line of combat, preferring to observe the struggles of those he had recently come to stay with rather than join in. It was not truly his fight; his only ties to World's Edge were that he slept here, perhaps a slender loyalty having grown within him for the Weyr Leader despite her poor choices in mates (if Semira was to be a guide at all). What had been curious to him, however, was that most of the invaders had been unicorns, and that prior to their arrival, he had witnessed several foals being led into the forest, each wearing a dainty and partially grown horn upon their brows. Perhaps it was another piece of the puzzle that had kept him from rushing in to assist the near strangers, that in a way, it seemed they had perhaps brought it on themselves, or simply it was a combination of lack of skill to provide and an overall lack of a reason to bleed.

It was not that he was afraid of battle; his father had trained him in basic combat maneuvers and had passed on numerous traits to his son that would provide him the strength of will to face danger, as had his mother. He simply was not one to face unnecessary peril for the sake of another's cause, either.

Despite his lack of involvement in combat, Dragomir did feel pressed to apply his newest knowledge in the field, and so while the madness had ensued at the front of the forest, he had taken the time to continue gathering some of the herbal components that Smoke had graciously taught him and the others who had arrived to her meeting. Not having any satchels as the practiced healer wore, he was left only to his own means, but Requiem had passed on to him a lesson without meaning to; he had bundled the stacks of plant matter together and bound them with long strands of Johnson grass from the sprawling meadow along the cliff, a trick learned while watching his mother gather foliage to make a bed to rest a healing dragon in. It had been a trick, searching for newly learned plants in the darkness, but he was sure by their taste and scent that he had discovered the right things: yarrow, for the bleeding, and comfrey, for the sore, the ends of the strong grass clenched between his teeth and the plants dangling from his lips in small bundles as he walked slowly through the front half of the forest, eyes searching for any who might require his assistance.