The cliffs were no foe to Dragomir, at least not in the traditional sense, so much as they were a star lifted to high to truly touch, a soft song lilting down from the Heavens that denies your mind a reprieve and your body the soothing embrace for which it longs. He wants to belong to the sound of the ocean meeting stone and the gentle ring of wind across the glass wall, to feel as if he is welcomed within the perimeters and that, he too, is a member of the group that fearlessly follows their midnight queen.

But he knows that he is not.

He had friends, surely, proven by the sweet flickering of noise that was the Glazier’s greeting to his silent arrival, but that did not make him a part of this puzzle. Not in such a way that Kahlua had become, known by nearly all at least by name and usually responded to with happiness and enthusiasm for her arrival. He couldn’t blame them for liking her that much, really, but it did hurt a little to know that he was not as inviting a companion as his teacher surely was, no matter that he’d already known he wouldn’t win any awards for popularity before he’d ever left home.

His parents hadn’t sheltered him from the truth of his life; they had painted its reasoning light into his head, passed on to their son that in exchange for a normal, socialized upbringing, Dragomir had been gifted the most precious joy of a peaceful, happy childhood. After having met some of those within Helovia, he could thank them, in a way, but for what he had done (or not done) to others.

He returns her cheeky smile with his own soft and goofy grin, enjoying her banter in response to his all too formal introduction and taking in her explanation of the scorpion with heightened interest. Being raised by former leaders gave a boy… most unique conversational traits, and even more unique patterns of thought, especially when that boy was as thoughtful as young Dragomir can be.

The Basin? he wonders, wondering what sort of daft notion had sent sweet Kahlua so deep into the maws of wolves. He hadn’t ever met them, of course, but Mirage had warned him of their motives in the aftermath of the invasion, and he found that they were even less desirous than the winged and horned creatures he’d been forced to suffer through so far.

Unicorns thinking that they were superior to the Queen of Dragons??

If only his father could see it. The pair could have a good and hearty laugh over it, to be sure; but for now, he only looked mildly concerned at the glass maker and her new trinket. Perhaps it was only a toy given as a token of kindness, but somehow, the lad doubted that others were as generous as himself and would not choose that path. Besides, weren’t the northern beasts murderers?

No murderer anywhere gave anyone a straight answer.

His stomach begins to eat itself in the face of his hypocrisy. Shuffling his hooves, he moves to respond to her, not sure really what to say.

Maybe Mirage was wrong about the unicorns, after all.

"I haven’t heard gifts to be what they usually give," he says with an arched brow that he hopes speak the unspoken for him, "your statue must have been beautiful to impress such rancorous animals." That his own racism was showing went unnoticed by the young stallion, feeling only an intense pride in the aftermath of his words that his teacher, the stunning and charming Kahlua, was so fine a talent that she could sway the blackened heart of malevolence itself. Either way, so worded was the statement that it could be portrayed as a simple rebuttal of their violent way of existence – which, in a way, Dragomir did share this opinion, as well.

As he had thought to himself before all hell had broken loose that soggy day in the willow grove, he did not desire a trail of blood spiraling out behind the hooves of his people as they won their proper throne. They could earn it through actions of valor, and bravery, though their mere existence they could prove that they were more wise and hardy than any of the other breeds that meandered upon the earth.

The dreams of a child; he cannot know this. He is too young to understand that he wants something that exists only in fairytales. The world has no room for his honorable ideas of conquest. It only holds room for more bones and bitter tears.

His heart races ever faster as the mare turns to her project, a collection of pretty blue stones that gleamed and sparkled, explaining her work as the glass closed over the objects and encased them in a fine layer of eternal ice.

The names mean nothing to him, though they should. He hadn’t caught the black mare’s calling or from where she had come, despite having caused considerable physical damage to the poor thing. The irony of their project slips past him, flutters like a butterfly in silent mockery about his head.

"In what way does the magic affect them?" he asks as she raises her eyes to him for inquiries, looking closer at the splendid chain that she has created in such a short time. That she can visualize all this within her head at one moment is startling to him, proof that he has much practice to undergo before he can hope to create anything as Kahlua does. It should be disheartening; instead, it fills him with a vigorous desire to become as talented as he may become. "Does it differ from stone type to stone type? Diamond is harder than amethyst and amethyst is harder than basalt," his deep voice rambles, much quicker than usual, along the trails of his thoughts, "different qualities should yield different results, I would think – but magic is not always logical."

[ OOC: And the humorous beginsssss ]
@[Kahlua]