The boy has a lot of questions and comments.

Dragomir wonders if he was like this, when he was young, staring at him perhaps too blankly as he cares very little for explaining things about his home to a stranger who once lived here and obviously not very long if he doesn’t know him. The colt is barely into his horn and all legs and lanky muscles, barely old enough to have been grazing at the most when he and his family had left, and it makes him really wonder if this one is really all that he says he is and if he shouldn’t have just chased him off rather than trying to be kind and befitting of his people’s reputation.

”It’s about as old as you are, I’d say, maybe younger by a few months. Couldn’t tell by looking at it,” he says, glancing over at the ruins of the wall with a bit of sadness and angst framing his face; that all that work had been for next to nothing aside from the memories he held of those weeks they’d worked together, the wraiths seemingly arriving at its completion to demolish its existence.

The next question makes him frown quite resolutely as he glowers at the boy. Obviously if his mother had told him so and he had been born here and he still held the impression that they might be some sort of horn wearing club, he came from a dam who looked the same as him at least. Either way, being compared to the Aurora Basin wasn’t something that settled well with the paint, knowing from what Mirage had told him that they weren’t exactly decent – and that had nothing to do with his views on keeping only unicorns in a mountain herd, that it was a stain to his own race and one that must be watched carefully.

Mirage said they were dangerous, and while Azarel means no offense, Dragomir takes it.

”The Edge is home to any willing to follow our laws,” he says with a brow rising as he looks at the gangly youth and wonders just who the hell he’d come from if he knows so little about his alleged birthplace; it surely meant his mother didn’t know much either. If she were here, Dragomir would tell her to shut her trap about things she couldn’t properly inform people about, but she wasn’t. He was left only with the remnants of her stupidity. ”You’d do well not asking those sort of questions around here again. Bigotry is not tolerated,” he rumbles, deep voice gravely in his agitation that he’s having to teach a boy lessons that he should already know from the very weave of this land, a lesson he fights against every day so that he can continue to grow among his family here, ”not even the suggestion of such a thing.”

As he’s come to expect from the boy, an answer leads to another question, and he almost sighs in annoyance that the kid has come here for a history lesson and has brought nothing in exchange for it other than an intrusion into Dragomir’s time. Thankfully, however, the sound of glass dislodging and falling to the earth draws his eyes towards the wall and the descended frame of Semira, a faint smile crossing his lips as she approaches and offers an answer for the colt, sparing the paint another row of words he’d rather not use.
”Afternoon, Semira,” he says, nodding hello in return, and answering her question with far more usefulness than any he had offered to Azarel so far, ”and no, we weren’t.” He chuckles briefly, a few rippling sounds embracing the air before dying as he looks over to the colt and back to his dragon friend. ”He says he used to live here, with his mother.”