His silver gaze darts between the stallion and his carefully crafted prizes, fighting to hide the hooded greed that glimmers behind the slate grey pupils. The power to craft glass is one he can certainly see being of use in the Regime - he thinks of weapons, of equipment to capture, intimidate and torture, to put to use creating havoc rather than pretty flowers. The painted man stutters, and a small grin plays at the corner of the warbringer's muzzle. Must be a virgin, he thinks to himself - he supposes the other stallion is rather young, barely out of his colthood, and his spluttering solidifies Tyradon's notion that he wouldn't know what to do with a mare with a six figure grid reference and a map.

But, as the beast knows, that particular education is better learnt through doing. And, with glass flowers and some sweet words, the other man should have no problems.

He looks back to the crafted blooms, wondering how the stallion obtained the ability to work such magic. Was he born with it, or did he earn it through the favour of some benevolent god, the same way as Tyradon is attempting to claim back his own supernatural powers? He has never been one for tact, but he feels it isn't prudent to ask quite yet. The stranger's next words give a half-answer to that question, as if it is his first project then he mustn't have been blessed for long. "As I said - an impressive gift." Even morseo if it's his first go, but the dragon king doesn't want to say that, for fear of sounding rather too complimentary. "Does it only work on flowers?" He knows a fair bit about magic, and generally it is fairly restrictive, perhaps as a way to limit one individual's power - his own magic, for example, was useful only on leaves. Perhaps the painted male could only improve flowers and plants, rather than crafting glass items out of thin air.

Cynder clambers up his neck and perches between his ears, her long, serpentine neck craned as she looks down at the magically enhanced gifts upon the stone. She sends Tyradon a mental image of her flame heating glass and moulding it whilst it's malleable, using the dextrous fingers that her bonded sorely lacks. It is an interesting idea, and makes the behemoth even more eager to discover more about this man's magical abilities. "I am Tyradon, by the way, and this is Cynder." The war-dragon gives a distracted chirrup of greeting, but her hungry gaze is fixed on the sparkling flowers - she is a sucker for anything shiny, and her paws twitch in Tyradon's mane as she fights the urge to hoard one.