The wind was practically whipping. The trees here were sparse and bowing like a soldier to their king. Everything here bowed to the storms, even the stone, it seemed. 
The birds that would sing now, to tell each other that a new day had awoken and the sun was going to rise soon had gone unusually quiet and the whistling of the wind, echoing from the rugged cliffs, was interrupted only by light footsteps and the rustling of feathers. 
“I just can’t seem to figure out what your problem is.”
With a sigh Vihor Thorn sank down on the next best rock he found and turned his head to the white feathered dragon following him. She really looked rather upset, at least as much as a dragon could do that. She lowered her head and nudged him on the shoulder.
“What is it, my friend? It can’t possibly be too cold for you.” He pushed her snout away gently. “I know you might not be aware but this here is supposed to be your home. Better than the undercroft we met, isn’t it, Stratim?” With a deep rumble Stratim agreed and laid down, curling around the rock. Her feathers flared up and Vihor wanted to laugh at her. A winddragon that doesn’t like strong wind was a joke that certainly would have paid a lot if he had stayed with the circus. 
“I really hope you don’t get lazy now. We still have a long way ahead of us.” He reminded her but she had already turned her head away and let out a provocatively loud snore. Maybe they did need a break. After all the duo had been walking for almost four hours now and the sun was rising. There was no particular reason why Vihor preferred to travel at night. Maybe it was just being used to it. The last two years of his life he had spent being a thief and those typically don’t move in broad daylight, especially when they have a dragon the size of two to three horses with them. Or when their appearance catches as many eyes as Vihor’s did. 

The wind slowed down when the rim of the sun started rising over the landscape of clouds. Vihor took off his coat, even though the cool air made the hairs on his arms immediately stand up. After this cold night he had to stretch, not his arms or legs but the pair of folded wings, attached on his hips and neatly folded on his back. They had been aching for some time now and really moving them again and picking at the jammed feathers until they stopped stinging helped a lot. Now this was one of the reasons Vihor liked hiding in the shadows better. When he was still in the circus it would bring him in money. He wasn’t like most beatkins, equally animal and human. Those wings, too short to fly, were not the only thing poking out, there were also the elven ears, the white hair, the yellow eyes… One time a child had described him as a badly done puzzle that just wouldn’t fit right. 
It hadn’t been particularly wrong. Even back in his tribe fitting in was difficult. While the other chicklets learned to fly, Vihor would stay on the on the ground. Even the wings of the others had never been big enough to fly but their connection to the element of wind had been inherited. It was strong, swept them off the ground and let them sail over the seas of clouds. And Vihor watched. His own connection to air had been one exceptionally difficult to figure out. It was there, all around him, but more like an itch than the comforting presence his tribe’s highmage had described it as. Oh Munja. He missed her and her wise words. If he had stayed she would’ve helped him surely to figure it out. ‘We are always with you’, that was the meaning of the feather tattooed on his ankle, but right now it really did not feel like it. 
He shook his head to snap out of it. Just a year here and he would be a free man with a free dragon, and then he could go wherever he wanted, find Kutsa or her grave, find where he really belonged, because it surely was not this place. 

Just one year. And until then he would try his best to survive. With a sigh Vihor crossed his legs, spread his wings and closed his eyes. 

Meditating was supposed to help building connection to mana, especially the grounding elements, but Vihor had to ashamedly confess that he was too impatient. The higher mages in his tribe would do this for days on end but he barely managed until the sun had emerged fully. Stratim protested loudly when he got up again and pulled her up on her horn. She growled, even snapped at him, but reluctantly followed him when he continued the rough path. Not long until they should meet the rest of their squad.