A familiar scent catches his attention, one that seems to always be outside the range of his vision until he seeks her out. The last time, she had not been alone, as she is now; he lifts his head from his dutiful plucking of blooms to find her there in the distance, lonely and grazing on the bleak looking grasses that remain in the snow and the wake of darkness. He wonders where her friend is, the muscular bitch with the loud mouth and loose temper, as she seems to be no where near; he remembers that the girl had said she was of the Dragon’s Throat, but the other had said nothing as to where she had come or was going home to. It was possible that they did not live together, at least not outside of their hearts; Dragomir could understand this notion. His family lived far away, but was never more than a second’s pause away should he bring them forward in his thoughts.

He is drawn towards her by his obligations to honor, a black feather tied in his tail alongside a pine branch that were united in more ways than just decoration on the tall, quickly developing stag; they had both seen the wraiths, one defending him from the first in the simple task of assistance and the other shielding him from the onslaught of a secondary, horrific devil. He is sure the feather belongs to her, Ranjiri of the Dragon’s Throat; she is the only creature with black and gold plumes that he has encountered in this land, and while it is possible they are not hers, it is equally so that they are.

He cannot bare the not knowing, the possibility that he carries a gift from a woman who would rather he not have it. He is an odd creature, our Dragomir, and while he is as disgusted by the sight of her disfigurements as he has always been, the soft place in his heart has broadened, and he is learning to accept people as Mirage had hoped he would, that long ago afternoon when he had first met the black queen and her perspective on life.

Ranjiri, for all her physical flaws, seemed to be a good girl, with a good nature; she had defended her brutish friend, after all, something Dragomir hoped one of his acquaintances would do for him should he find himself stressed beyond his social means. He would do what he could to ease the strain of life upon her, if he could, for the simple fact that she did it for others; either way, she had never done him or his friends any evil, and so he would try to be kind to those he had a natural desire to avoid.

"Wanjiwi?" muffled, her name falls from his lips from around the bundle of flowers he has collected, the young man cursing himself as he realizes his faux pas and lowers them to the earth, ears splayed along either side of his simple features in dismay of self. There is no skill contained in his repertoire to hide the gleam of relief in his face to know that she did not die, as he had feared when he had first seen the feathers, or the way they lose their glimmer as he takes note of the sad way her shoulders and wings droop alongside her. This was not the same mare he had encountered trading gifts; she had not been so morose. "Is everything alright?"

Dragomir