As is standard with the young man, he takes note of the difference in their height quite suddenly and late into the meeting, her cheerful compliment giving rise to the fact that he had to glance down at her to see the sweet curvature of her smile. Her small bow, however, quickly strikes the idea from his mind and leaves his head reeling with awkward pleasure at the notion that he is worthy of such respect from others; it had never crossed his mind that a glass maker would be someone who earned cordial nods of salutation whenever they made mention of their job, and while it was true that the Moon was the source of his magic and that it was, therefore, a holy and sacred thing, he did not see any true honor in the title.

What he found the most pride in was working with the glass itself, the finished products that he could give away or trade for useful things for his friends and family. It was the work and what it brought to his newfound kin in this forest that was worth mention, and perhaps that was why she nodded. Ever since he’d looked too deeply past the surface with the last pretty mare he’d met, he hesitates to believe that she thinks anything at all like she does.

She’s only pretty, and smiling at him while he flounders about his words, kind and perfect as Kahlua had been when he’d first met her. He smiles his own smile in return to her, but it is not entirely for the joy of the conversation; it is because he thinks, to himself, that the Moon is a woman because it is the only form that automatically is born into the world with a magic of its own, a binding mysticism that makes foolish boys fall too hard and too deep into the glistening seas suspended in their eyes.

He can’t swim, at least not there; a recent discovery, one that leaves him guarded against her kindness and with eyes that see more clearly just how far that horizon can stretch.

”More amusing than grand, I’d say,” he replies after a short pause, which is true; he truly loves what he does, the only detriment to the job his newfound pressures to teach and be a leader of sorts, ”though I am blessed that I was deemed worthy enough to spend my days doing what I enjoy.” He could handle this sort of thing, the greeting and welcoming of others, he supposes, but as far as telling others what to do? He was not old enough to be of any wisdom or use in such things, and surely the older members of the herd would mock him behind his turned back or disregard him in his youth, no matter how skilled he seemed to be.

He forgets how gentle the hearts of his herd can be.

Her next words draw a smile to his lips and perk his ears up atop his head, the stallion not having noticed that they’d drawn downwards during his solemn thoughts of his terrible responsibilities. ”We have that in common, then,” he grins, the deep bass of his voice less reserved with this one than it has been with others who have come to the border and been unfortunate enough to be greeted by the antisocial paint. Gesturing into the Moon’s woodland with a dark muzzle, his voice rumbles forth again, lips curved into a pleasant smile that reveals he has decided no one will mind if he just brings her back in as if she never left. ”Come on in, while we talk,” slip his words as he turns in towards the Edge, assuming she’ll follow because he figures she has little reason not to, "it seems I'm only ever out among the others for work."

But words pull his eyes back over his shoulder to her and his pace to a halt, curiosity lighting the pools of his clear blue gaze as he wonders what sort of question it will be that it must be preceded by one asking for it’s permission. ”Sure,” he replies, not really knowing if he can answer her or not but willing to give her inquiry a shot.