Gentle caress drew Leslie’s gaze skyward as if to behold the trickle of falling tears. What did Mitne cry of behind the coming dawn? A passing through which bid a light frown to tug at his lips. Her storms were always so unpredictable and while her soothing song was typically a comfort in the ways her softened touch streaked against bindings of leather, bounced from foliage and dripped to soak the earth. How it weighed down the snowy curls atop his crown if he were foolish enough to remain in her ever fickle embrace… but this time was bit different. Her rising symphony had rolled in far sooner than anticipated and with it a call so foreboding echoed upon a distant rumble.

It foretold of her anger, of what the coming storm may bring with the heavy scent of ozone. An aroma growing deeper by the second as it swirled against the breeze and clung thickly to the air in heady perfume. One eagerly drawn in before a slow breath fell from his lungs and eyes returned to the earth at his feet. While there would always be mystery over what the divine draconian's emotions may bring, how swiftly a fury may descend on those below; there was but one certainty. A hunt would have to be cut short. There was no sense risking mistakes when visibility lessened, when that promised downpour would surely be upon them within the hour. Greedily blotting out what remained of the crow’s senses and leave the world in her debt of nourishment.

However, before that could happen, he hoped to find shelter; a place to ride out the storm in peace. Hopefully the little dragon could be sustained on smaller snacks and what remained of a previous kill until Mitne passed them by. “Confn, origato udoka ehtah hetha osri coi itrewicric tisvelkilt,” a suggestion Cricket heeded without any resistance as their steps swiftly chased after his own. Following the path forged ever deeper into the shadowed woods in hopes of discovering where the canopies lay thickest. Where foliage alone blocked out a majority of the rain before its tempo increased. Something that should have been an easy enough task to complete without issue, at least until nerves bid him to pause.

Diminutive frame freezing up as sounds and scents unnatural to the forest soon filled the senses. For a moment he dared not even breathe as the steady crackle of kindled flames resounded, mixing with delicate birdsong and the unending rhythm of the sky. Yet something very wrong came with it. A chance at peace poisoned by the metallic tang of blood, ichor laced in the distinct tinge of medicinal crafts. Whoever - or whatever - lurked in that direction were surely bad news. Beings they would be better off avoiding. Encounter easy enough to evade, they would simply go a different way. Find another portion of these woods to tuck themselves away in to wait everything out. The storm and a stranger’s departure.

So without a word veiled digits reached out to grab hold of the draconian, a creature who’d begun to drift from his side; hoping to direct the creature away from the mysteries lingering beyond the trees. Though much to the crow’s dismay, Cricket’s curiosity was unending in its youth and their strength greatly outweighed his own for so easily did they worm free of attempted grasps. Only to creep ever closer to the shroud of brush in investigation of the way ahead. Act which sent a pang of fear straight through the crow’s heart, the man unable to banish each scenario which played on repeat through his mind. Of everything that could go wrong should the unknown discover the creature - or worse yet, be approached especially with the cursed scent of ichor upon them.

The glint of the reptilian’s eyes were sure to catch against flickering fire light. A notion which bid hushed lyrics to rise as tongues clicked, “Tir ti bevi Cricket, yth re jaseveir ti vorqir for n'teaz'r. Petranas itrewic spical.” For trouble was what surely awaited them within the clearing. It was all they would find, thoughts refusing to believe anything else but the drifting voices which whispered, encouraging the crow’s trepidations. It was better to leave. To abandon all which may lay on the other side even as worry festered right alongside terror. Blood meant something was hurt. Fine if prey, not so if it were one left for dead. A dilemma he’d faced time and time again, he did not wish to now but neither was it a matter to be ignored. Nor was it something he wanted to needlessly be involved in if it would only bring more woe.

Frantic sights held upon the draconic, “Origatoi gethrisj.” Another pleading whisper and while it drew Cricket’s gaze, they were not phrases heeded for whatever they’d glimpsed urged the dragon’s steps forward. A wide berth granted to the beast which grazed as they trotted toward the rising flames, slitted pupils growing wide in the light as Cricket stared toward not only a woman unfamiliar to them but to the towering hound nestled just behind her. Something the draconian had come to learn another was scared of, they would watch the hound. Their crown tilted with a flick of their tongue before a chirp of announcement - of beckoning - fell.

Sound which sent a new wave of panic through the crow as he wanted nothing more than to slink away, to pretend they had never stumbled upon another and yet Cricket had not allowed their presence to remain secret. Denied the chance of simply going and yet, despite the ever building dread, Leslie could not leave the draconian on their own. He had to at least try to keep them safe. “Winhal, coi ui winhal. Shio di coi,” a lie he told himself as if it would banish the unease lacing its fingers about his throat. Something he could not swallow back, a notion which could never be banished even beneath the faint wave of courage mustered. One which brought cautious steps to tread far less brazenly than those of the draconic.

Gaze flickering between the towering frame of strangely speckled doe, thicker than one too like the muscled beasts glimpsed in the cities; to where Cricket themself had decided to perch before the vague familiarity of one seen at the fall of divinity. A woman who had assisted in a dragon’s demise, though her name was just as unknown as she. This one nothing more than a stranger yet it was not she focus lingered on for much longer as Leslie was quick to take notice of the towering beast nestled so near to her. The unmistakable frame of a dire, a creature which coaxed hardly suppressed anxieties to the surface in full.

Pupils dilating as breath hitched in his throat, fingers curling as he fought the urge to grab hold of his own arms. Failing to banish the memories such a wolf stirred, those which could not be quelled on a whim as a quiver tainted the breath which finally fell. Sights scarcely fled the creature to dance upon the bloom of blood about her ribcage, rapidly flicking toward her visage as metallic nails clicked. Unfurling in slow gesture toward the wound, a limb as shaky as the voice which rose alongside it. Unease dripping upon each phrase, “Fueryoni shilta keefum dout halivon for miles, wer salve tiric ti estian wer gazziz di mior aurthon shafaer coita kurjh.”

Ichor clung to her in full force. It hovered about her camp like the plague, calling out to any who passed it by. She needed something more to banish it. Ointments alone would not keep that wound from reopening with the faintest of motions, would not cease the way blood wept so freely… yet he dared not make any other move toward her. Feet firmly fixed in place as attentions were careful to drift only over that seeping injury and the evident pain it wracked against her frame. At least she were not stupid enough to be out here alone. Focus subconsciously drifting back to the dreaded beast before in efforts to lessen the tension seeking to strangle him, steps shifted back.

Only then did Cricket’s own eyes shift, sensing discomfort and rounding about the crow’s side in mockery of a barrier between he and the snowy titan. While a presence would never stop those sidelong glances, it was enough to allow a larger portion of his focus to return to another. Grasping for words familiar to her yet oh so foreign to he, “You hurt. Need... need,” fangs bit softly at his lip beneath that beaked mask as he fought for the desired phrase upon heavy accent. A known tongue still fighting to claim his breath, “Irisvir? Need fix?” For help in this regard was one such task he’d been trained on beneath the Drih’liri’s claws. A sense of purpose - of use - bestowed upon him when not heeding a master’s whims. This was something he’d gotten good at over the years. Something practiced.