He didn’t recognize the stranger that arrived on silent wings in the Dawn capitol’s courtyard.

Ipomoea had become used to at least recognizing—if not knowing—the many faces that drifted in and out of the capitol each day. There were the usuals of course: those who made their home within the walls of the city, a recurring presence that drifted outside his window with liveliness and purpose. The scholars, too, were as dependable as the sun. They glided back and forth between the library and the garden, quills and scrolls and the occasional book or ancient artifact tucked carefully into their robes for closer inspection. Ipomoea watched these particularly, intrigued by their expectant faces and the delicate way with which they held their books, their treasures, by the knowledge written in lines and furrowed brows across their faces. Then there were the merchants, arriving in pairs and groups and displaying their wares proudly for any to peruse, coming and going with the season.

This man was not among any of these groups, and yet he stood like he belonged there in the middle of the courtyard. In fact, his stance was reminiscent of Kasil, when Po caught him in one of those rare moments of peace and thoughtfulness.

It was the mystery surrounding him—and the purposeful way he held himself—that drew Ipomoea from the warmth of his room. As he trotted excitedly through the halls, he folded his wings snugly against his fetlocks as though bracing himself for the cold.

And cold it was, a rush of frosty air meeting him as he swung the great doors open and took that first step outside. His breath rushed visibly from his flared nostrils, a few sparse snowflakes gathering upon his snowcapped back. Speckled ears were pricked sharply forward as he got a closer look at the stranger, at the golden scales kissing the bridge of his nose and cheeks and throat. The horns gracing his head, too, were rather unique, and Ipomoea took a moment to appreciate the rather draconian appearance of the Terrastellan man before him, a man who might otherwise have blended into the snowy landscape winter found them in.

“Welcome to Delumine, stranger,” he finally greeted him, drawing closer with childlike trust and sincerity. “I am Ipomoea, Emissary of Dawn. I hope your flight was well, the air seems rather brisk today.”

It was with some restraint that he stopped several paces away in a show of respect for the other’s personal space—although his rosy eyes betrayed his desire to draw closer, to study the scales and the intricate horns, to peek beneath that cloak and see just how much of him was serpentine. For a brief moment, he wondered if his tongue would be forked, like a snake’s—and made a mental note to check if he got a chance.

“From where do you travel?”

As they stood, the snow began to spiral gently down upon them. It didn’t bother Po; it was as natural to him as sunshine to a Solterran, despite the chill settling upon his hooves and back.