The dog, he thought to himself as the drenched hound peered at him from alongside the milky buckskin; he hadn't heard him circle back around, but he wasn't a stranger to the ways of bonded animals and their masters, and that the beast would return to the stallion's side, no matter what fear filled him, was true among all species who bonded to the equine races. The hound's lolling tongue invited the young man to feel comfortable in their company, even if the master of the beast was gruff, perhaps even antisocial in his responses. Dragomir could blame him not at all; he himself wasn't the most skilled at the verbal arts, his insecurities often leaving him on the verge of seeming rude and untouchable. He was not this way, however, and so he assumed the same of the son of the Gunslinger.

"If you mean Nieque, the first of our kind, then yes," the stranger says, and the naive youth positively beams in response to the words, his enthusiasm deepening as the buckskin elaborates upon his Isilmian roots. Had he known his mother? His father? Had he seen the great Gods of the horse? The questions broiled across Dragomir's surface thoughts and bumped against one another, threatening to spill forth in an incomprehensible tumble goaded onward by his desperate (albeit moderately ignored) feelings of homesickness and overwhelming loneliness, his lack of understanding of the beliefs he had been fed in the absence of any true culture.

All questions he had were silenced by a question of the stranger's own, a curious arrangement of words that, to those of Helovian descent, would seem corrupt and vile, vain beyond even the most valorous of fools. But to the boy, he only smiled, all that he had been taught during his years on the Isle of Dragons swallowing all that he had learned in his months within this kingdom. "Why else honor His name?" he answered, his smile quirky and humorous as he looked upon the hound keeper, images of his father having asked him very similar questions fringing his thoughts. Proudly, in honor of his bloodline, he raised his head, such clear emotional strength that was only present, at this point in his life, when he spoke of those who had passed on their blood and bone to comprise his own body. "I am Dragomir, son to Adalwulf the Steadfast and Requiem the Dragoness. It is good to meet a true brother in a land so removed from our Lord." humbly stated the young man, his words without a single note of boastfulness; he knew very little of his parent's rule but what they had shared with him, and never a foolish child, he dared not speak of their exploits without having them confirmed by an outside source. It was a lesson he had learned early in his life; Svello had told him a tall tale of he and Vihar's exploits, some thing along the lines of having killed a basilisk along the edges of the island. Perhaps it would have been a humorous joke to a more wise creature, a young and two headed physically weak being defeating such a foe, but to the child that was Dragomir, it was a very plausible event indeed, and it had frightened him.

The mocking laughter of his father as he explained to the wide eyed and awed child that his brothers had lied still stung in his memories, and so tales of his father's valiant deeds remained glued firmly to the roof of the painted stallion's mouth.