He envisions her gift as the words slip past her lips in description, understanding now why the trinket she had been given in exchange held the shape of a scorpion as well. Again, he looks at it, the whirring and terribly interesting creature given to his teacher by the murderers, and wonders who it is that creates such things.

The scorpion is small. It is worrisome to wonder what size the artisan is limited to, what power.

His ear flicks backward with the thought on its tip, the boy resolutely deciding that he would not fret so heavily on the thing at this moment. Happiness was at his muzzle’s point, a gleaming gem with Kahlua’s name writ in its heart, and he would dwell upon the pleasant rather than the dark and foreboding for once.

"A suitable creature for the Basin," he settles on, though he figures that the image of a pile of raccoon refuse might more suit Mirage’s image of them. He won’t elaborate, however – the gleam of pride in the painted mares eyes sends another swarm of butterflies flittering through his belly, and he cannot bare the thought of crushing her smile. He has found few moments of inner peace since his arrival to Helovia, and while the rush of flutters in his tummy wasn’t exactly peaceful, it wasn’t the aching emptiness he felt when he thought of his loneliness or the sickening sensation that swept his mind whenever he thought of black feathers strewn across muddy earth.

While she worked, his body took on a posture of relaxation, hind hoof tilted with its large tip dug into the ground for balance. Every ten minutes or so, he switches the leg his weight rests on, occasionally tilting his head or drawing his nose nearer the creation to observe the magic at work.

The colorizing process was interesting as she explained it, bringing his chocolate ears forward in full attention as he eagerly nods his head in confirmation that he hears her words. He can see it, as vague as her description is, and it sends a different sort of rush through his veins than the one he feels when her eyes meet his own.

The peak of his elation staggers when she admits she does not know. Perhaps she does not know everything he had hoped she did… though he quickly shakes the thought away.

She was a brilliant philosopher, and new to her powers. Perhaps she had simply not had adequate time to study.

"It could be worth studying," he says with a bright smile, an idea occurring to him suddenly, grin brightening and words tumbling out with the most enthusiasm Kahlua has ever heard him pronounce anything with. "What if you could meld the diamond to the glass, like with the blue scorpion?" his eyes are saucers, gleaming and brilliantly blue beneath the dark lines of his lashes, "do you have any idea how strong the glass could be? As if it was of triple thickness, quadruple even, and just as clear!"

Realizing he was probably sounding an awful lot like the inexperienced, young, and very not suave stallion that he is, Dragomir’s smile grows wry and apologetic as he attempts to brush away both his own embarrassment and the rambling nature of his thoughts put to words. "Even dragon’s fire can’t melt diamonds."

When she discusses sending him on an errand, he quite woefully groans within himself though tries to maintain face for the sake of the Glass Maker. Of all those he had met who called the Dragon’s Throat home, they all had worn wings, and while he did not know that this Shadow was the mystery mare he was trying like all hell to avoid, he surely didn’t want to walk into the den of pigeons.

It just seemed so risky.

But it was Kahlua. And the matter of the greenhouse was another large interest of his, the idea simply wondrous in theory and something he desired greatly to see in place.

Curse Nieque for this fence I have found myself on, he thinks gruffly, looking at the cheerful features of his tutor with a slight down turn of the corners of his lips, and curse him for pushing me onto this side of the damn thing.

"I can do this," he says, more confirming the notion to himself than agreeing to the task at hand. Already on the wind, however, the young man cannot revoke his words, and is left with the bittersweet taste on his tongue.

Honor, he repeats to himself.

Fiend, hisses his past.