The Weyr Leader, he mused, the call of his name drawing curious features about to observe who had called them, but no Akaith.. It was not Semira, for this was a woman's call, and so he had half expected it to be Smoke taking note of the aspiring stallion's bundle of bitter (albeit useful) herbs. His smile was true on his lips, the young stag having found that in their short journey together from the Threshold to the Edge itself that Mirage held an element to herself that demanded respect. That she remembered him, and not just his face, made him truly happy, as he was sure that if he lived to be 5,000 years old, he would still recall the black mare and her golden dragon fondly and with ease. She had been the one to bring him here, after all; he would still be alone in the wilderness if not for her kindness, the chance she had given the misguided and rather lost young male. He was glad for her, if for no other reason than she was a face that he knew, for some reason he could not explain, he could come to rely on.

"Mm'lay-dee," he rumbled around the bundle in his mouth, having forgotten its presence in his enthusiasm for her arrival, his avalanche of a voice having grown deeper in the season since they had last met, nearing it's ultimate tone but still not it's deepest depths. His head bowed low as it had upon their first meeting, dark toned muzzle pressing against the line in the center of his chest, an added grandeur of a lifted limb in the fore as it's partner reaching out further across the loamy earth of the forest. Not intended for sarcasm or humor, it was still worthy of a chuckle or two from onlookers who knew anything of his lineage; the bow itself would have drawn an amused smirk to the lips of his mother, if she were to see it, and a snarl to that of Adalwulf's for his son being such a subordinate and easily won Tom, ideas that did not cross Dragomir's mind until he was once again standing tall and upright (and sending his brilliant smile into a momentary flicker of self-doubt), the discarded collection of herbs resting before his hooves.

He hoped, in the few awkward moments between meeting and the first dregs of conversation, that the smile upon his leader's face was true and meant for him. He was not aware of it himself, but his keen desire to be accepted by those he admired would drive most of his life along whatever path it would follow; he may have hidden the heart of a leader beneath his youthful obedience, but any such a soul raised by such a lord as Adalwulf could sense the aura of wisdom that leaked from Mirage's pores, and this soul in particular yearned for that smile to beam down upon him. In her, also, he felt a certain maternal protection, a comfort he had left behind far to the south and many miles of travel from here; perhaps she was a cure for homesickness. But wasn't any company?

She seemed to be even more illustrious today than she had upon the first meeting, and so with curious and eager eyes he awaited her words, his ears raising ever so slightly (not that they could raise much higher than they were now) as her voice embraced them. All the more pleased was his smile as her statement confirmed, to Dragomir, that her grin was one of true admiration, though he was saddened to have to tell her that he had thus been unsuccessful at finding anyone.

Perhaps because no one knew him but a child and a wisdom filled healer, a handful of others. Most would probably not even know his face. He'd spent much of his time in the Edge hiding in a copse of tightly packed trees that he'd discovered not to far from the cliff face he assumed the place had been called the World's Edge for. "No," he flatly stated, not wanting to delve into his nearly hermit like existence in the herd since arriving, though one of his sparse encounters would perhaps draw even more pleasure to the face of the ebonite queen if her daughter had not already mentioned their meeting. "Good thing, I guess. Not many were wounded if they cannot be found."