He’d taken to walking the wall. It was the only thing he could recall Mirage directly asking them to do, and the guilt that lacquered him was so thick that he felt pressed to walk its length. It helped the ease of the task that he could admire the thick glass barrier that he had assisted in the process to make, that he could look upon it and remember the one time in his life that he had felt truly useful and a part of a family other than that which he had left behind on the isle.

Currently, he observed its foundations, partly for cracks, and partly for purely scholarly reasons. He took note of how the object nestled into the earth, it’s ends invisible to the eye; he didn’t dare dig up the earth along side the thing to see just how deep into the soil its shimmering roots were. He also took note of its balance and sturdiness. He was sure, although the thing was glass, that it was quite strong and would take many months of his beatings before cracking in the slightest.

A familiar voice draws his interest near the gateway into the kingdom of dragons. His last encounter had been with two girls just out there, and while he wasn’t entirely excited to hear the vocals that met his raised ears, he was happy to know that Ricochet was here and well.

It would seem he’d met Kahlua’s handiwork. The smile that lit the young man’s face was evident as he walked out of the doorway, arriving to find that his appearance was beaten by that of a beautiful flaxen woman. He took note of her with a passing gaze that was courteous despite her ability to draw his eyes for much longer than that; the slope of her belly and hips indicated that this mare was not a spring flower. She had already been plucked.

As far as Dragomir knew, this woman was claimed. He meant no insult to her partner by gazing to long at his auburn prize.

It would seem she knew him also – and from what he had already experienced of the brazen man, he figured that she understood his beliefs and bristle like exterior quite well. His grin never faltered as he approached, stopping a respectable distance from both and offering a polite nod of greeting to the lady, first.

"Brother," he says to the buckskin, his crystalline gaze twinkling in the kinship that he shared with the man. He cannot entirely shake the foreboding feeling that fills him – he has kept their secret of what has occurred in the willow grove. Though he still wears the marks of the treason in faint aches where once there were deep bruises, he does not wish to revisit the occurrence or share the hideous imagery with his leaders. If Ricochet is here to cause such trouble, the boy is afraid he will have to dislike his new found friend.

The thought is surprisingly upsetting. He has found great camaraderie with the milky buckskin, the fire starter, even shared his first true battle alongside him; it would be truly painful to the mostly honorable and brusque heart of the young stallion, who looks to the ash dipped male as a trusty side arm, or perhaps even the friend one finds in the man who walks with you into your first bullet-storm.

"I see you’ve met our wall," he chuckles jovially despite the dark hesitations lingering in his mind. He is quite proud of the shimmering barrier, his part in building it, and the glorious beauty of the woman who made it, as well as the great matron who cleared the trees from its winding path. The wall, to Dragomir, is a symbol of the strength of his breed and people, the majority of the hooves who trekked alongside its construction those of equine decent.

The wall is a symbol of the righteousness that he feels when he speaks the name of his Gods, Nieque and Aarde, the horse kings of Isilme, or when he looks upon the scar riddled man who he has come to know as one of the few who still remember their strength. He glances once more to the pretty woman who has also come to greet the stranger outside their misty haven, wondering if she too shares in this bond of brotherhood.

"I don’t believe we have met, miss," deeply resonates his voice towards her, blue eyes honed in on the simple and pleasant attributes of her face, "but I am Dragomir, crafter of the World’s Edge."

He is getting better at this conversation thing. He really is. Of course, both his companions in this particular exchange happen to be to his liking – their bodies are unmarred by genetic mutations, their brows simple and their shoulders bare. Still, he has not often shared words or his name as freely as he is now, and perhaps this is a sign that he is progressing into a more comfortable skin to wear.

It could just be that he’s still partially high on the thrill of the chase, disillusioned by the weight of his guilt.