”I don’t know,” says the stranger, and a faint snort of displeasure at the fact that someone was here ruining his perfectly solitary day for no particular reason at all rises from his dark muzzle. The unicorn does at least seem to realize that this is not a suitable response to such a question and elaborates, to which Dragomir’s expression softens and his demeanor eases into one of less hesitancy. If he had lived here at some point, then he surely understood that violence was not tolerated.

Either way, he needed to find time and a way past his own bitterness to speak with Kahlua about this; it was a bit much for random passerby to utilize the Edge as a place to sight see and gawk at, in his opinion, and would be a giant waste of their time if the idea of tourism in his home caught on.

”Dragomir,” he replies, not allowing such friendly terms as a nickname such as the purple tinted male, mostly because he’s not the sort to approve butchering the name your mother gave you for the sake of expediency or feeling closer to someone. It’s also because he feels no desire to be close to this stallion for any longer than it takes to assure he moves on and away from the dragon’s nest, a place that the young painted bay is overly protective of for reasons he does not fully understand.

While he has tried to rise above how he was raised, he cannot help but observe the boy as a vagrant cur seeking to ruin all that is sacred and holy in Dragomir’s life. He doesn’t comment that he hasn’t seen him around because he’s only truly been here for a year, and so it’s possible he’d missed the time in which the other male had lived here and it seems a bit much to assume he’s lying; he does, however, hold a grudge against the horn on his face and the way he has so unceremoniously come to stare into the forest uninvited.

The two things don’t pair well with the painted lad’s view on the world.

It seems the wall has missed the other one’s attention as he now suddenly takes great interest in it, turning his face inquisitively towards Dragomir and asking what it is gleaming back there, both in terms of purpose and materials. ”It’s a glass wall. That section is mostly gone,” he explains, remembering the strength of the thing when it had been whole and new, an expression of all the hopes that had been scattered as it fell. He doesn’t go into why its broken or how long its been that way, or whether or not its being fixed or serves any use at all anymore.

It’s none of this one’s business, anyway.

@[Azarel]