Rolling the metal dragon through the sand, the grains kinetically cling to the new bronze, slowly falling away when gravity again steals purchase. Deciding as he does so that, whatever force caused the figurine to come to be, was likely of his own doing; he’d never heard of a magical stretch of the beach which procured trinkets, nor did he think the odds of such a thing happening directly under his hoof (as he was thinking of it) were entirely probable, either. He now simply inspected the tiny Israfel to determine how it had happened at all, his eyes hooded with deeply furrowed, thoughtful brows.

So, when a raven arrives to share the beach with him, a dragon, of all things, alighting beside her, Dragomir looks up with an expression of moderate disbelief, and bewilderment. For one, he’s never heard a raven speak, and that it has a dragon escort is peculiar, as well. That it’s all occurring on the same day as the metal anomaly makes the stallion wonder if, maybe, this stretch of the beach isn’t magical, after all.

He runs his crystalline eyes over the black bird, its glossy feathers shining in the sunlight, and the dragon defensively postured next to her. She says something about having things which belong to him, but Dragomir, looking at the thing, cannot be sure what it is, as neither the raven or the dragon have anything with them, as far as he can discern. His next, logical wonder, then, is whether or not the location of this thing is very far from here.

"Of mine?" his deep, bass voice rumbles, ears perking forward in friendly (albeit suspicious) wonder, already having forgotten the thing of which she speaks; he’d had it so short of a time period, during such a rushed portion of things, to boot, that he’d barely had time to really accept it was his before it was gone. His mind, rather than travelling to a fallen Tiger Goddess, travels back to the Edge, to his clearing, and all the things he had stored there. He supposes he had left a good bit of material and supplies there all those years ago, hadn’t he? Perhaps this bird had come across his notches of gemstones, his numerous, always useful conch shells, or his stash of carefully created rope…

He was not materialistic in many ways, despite enjoying his work with those materials far more than he enjoyed seemingly anything else. While, certainly, he had been morose for some time period about the loss of any of the things he’d let go to the river of time in his life, he’d also viewed it as some sort of penance for by-gone transgressions, or simply, as a means to become a better man through temperance of his being. What those errors had been, or exactly what lessons he had garnered, he didn’t know, but that was okay; some things, you never got to learn.

Despite his natural wariness towards peculiar, obviously magical creatures, Dragomir remains amicable towards the pair of flying beasts, putting away his bronze dragon statuette into one of his pouches (not bothering to repin the clasp for now), while he thinks, looking back down at the black bird with a smile when he’s done. If they are to be venturing somewhere, he’s going to be ready to go when the time arises.

Dragomir