He’s heard many passing him by, not in any sort of danger as a woman might be while loitering in such a place. It hasn’t slipped his notice that this place reeks – it’s just that he’s too young to truly understand what the smell means, only that it makes him feel all the more rushed to finish his prize. He doubts she will see his feelings that gleam the in center of the beads, along the supple ridges of the petals; he hopes that it will help her feel safe and beautiful, so that she might be stronger than before he had given her the gift.

The thoughts of his childish crush with a foolish girl’s pretty smile absorb him, and his ears do not flicker towards the sounds of the hooves that weave their way through the weeping wood. He has no room for them in his thoughts, in between the constant image of the softly curved glass loops along the back of the flowers and the coating along the petals themselves that he had to hold in his mind and the emotional well that he fed each pretty pendant from.

Truly, he thinks of all the women of his life while he works; his mother, the Dragon Queen Mirage, mistress Kahlua and the sweet and gentle ladies who had come to aide Resplendence, the remarkably magical and frightening dragon daughters, Semira and Amaris. He loves them all, in his own insignificant way, even if all he can do to prove it is think of them from time to time and put his life between the exterior world and the haven they had given him within.

He finishes another hellebore just as a dark soldier arrives, the flower merrily clinking against the stone work surface in striking contrast to the stranger’s body littered with scars and his dark voice brittle with the sound of war. The young Glassmaker pauses, his bright blue eyes finding the harsher ones of the wanderer and feeling deep within his belly the ache of remembrance and the lurid twinge of history repeating itself.

The eyes of this one might be teal, the dragon lounging across his shoulders a shaggy dog running through the rain. The mess of lines across his flesh is all too familiar and the setting makes the painted Glazier hesitate for but a moment despite the friendly nature of the words that had been spoken and the proud creature that rides the black stag.

When what the words were finally settled through his overwhelming anxiety at so suddenly remembering such a hateful thing, his mouth stands open, the syllables stuttering from his tongue. "I-I, I am not a, ah - but thank you," he manages after almost gagging a few times on his own tongue out of stupendous embarrassment at the notion of being a lady’s man of any sort, too noble and naïve a boy to ever be so callous with the discussion of a woman’s tender heart. It was all he had to even stand near one that was moderately pretty in any sort of way, the young stallion still tragically abysmal at his first rendezvous into the realm of love. "It’s my first project," he adds, ears falling to the sides of his head as he looks down on the myriad flowers he has completed so far, knowing he still has a long way to go and already feeling a slight drain on his energy for the day, "good to know its decent enough to earn the affection of random passerby."

Hopefully it wins hers, at least her pride. I only know how to make them because of her, anyway.

The grin that mocks him is mistaken for one of a friendly nature, the young stallion not well versed in those of wicked hearts; it was evident in the tale of he and Ricochet that such a thing was true, and how quickly his own had darted down the path of decency rather than that of violence once told there was another trail to walk on. It wasn’t to say he was entirely good of heart; he was only a mortal, after all, capable of many small failures and potentially disastrous ones, but he liked to think of himself as a man of value beneath his youthful indiscretions when he could get past the guilt. The man before him was not a good man, not any sort of the word as Dragomir knew it, but so simple has his life been that he does not suspect wickedness from those of his own kind. He slips easily into the conversation with this older and obviously more experienced stallion, the confidence with which he carries his bulky black frame something that the young Glazier hopes to be able to emulate, someday.

For now he is still shy, and awkward. He rarely makes eye contact with the stranger even though he is not alarmed by his gender or species as he usually is by the others of Helovia, still halfway working on the flowers before him because it is less rude to be doing something and avoiding conversation than to be merely standing there as if the biggest idiot in all the world. He finds that this a facet of his new job that he will quite enjoy; no longer will the heavy obligation to reply to words directed his way pull on his kind heart while he has glass to create.

He answers the question while coating one of the last flowers on his stone, glancing up every so often as he finished a petal or moved a completed bud aside. "Anything, as far as I know," the deep voice of the painted stag rumbles, a hint of bright enthusiasm highlighting the tone of the words, "Kahlua made whole objects out of thin air." Her name is said with a sort of reverence that sends his lips running along the rim of the petals before him, an unbidden reaction to the visual images that rose to mind at the mention of his new Queen and her former abilities. He catches himself in the act, startled at the strangeness of these emotions that turn inside of his belly and chest, almost recoiling from the flower and uncomfortably pulling the last natural flower forward to be plated in silica.

The dragon moving along his conversational companion’s back halts the crafter before he even begins, so caught in his work that he had missed her entirely during the first moments of their chat. Perhaps it is odd, but the man raised among dragons feels most comfortable when confronting one of the fire breathing beasts, knowing their nature better than those of his own species. After all, he hadn’t had other foals to play with, only the wild wyverns, and their myriad colors gleaming under an island sun. This one is a green, regal and charming as his father’s Niddhoggr, and seemingly just as savage; she has seen war, he instantly knows, just from the sharp gleam in her eyes, the predatory way in which she holds her body. This was not the playful innocence of the wild dragons or his mother’s proud Israfel, the lucky ones who had not known suffering or pain or a world burning into nothing around them.

He had only heard stories, but he knew already that violence could rend a soul into nothing. A dragon was a fine beast indeed to withstand even the cold rage of war with only a more visceral appearance to their aura to mark the black event.

"Dragomir," he replies, a true smile tugging at his lips as he takes note of the dragon’s eager stare upon the trinkets on the stone, finding comfort and humor in Cynder’s violent grace contradicting the gluttony for the shining things fringing her stare, reminding him of tales his father told of the true dragons (ones such as Semira's grandmother) who hoarded mountains worth of gold and gems in mountain dens.

”She’s a fine looking woman,” says Tyradon, and Dragomir’s ears flit backwards for but a second until he realizes that this must be a means that men bond with each other. Its not like he has much experience with other males, anyway; it had seemed that, since his arrival to Helovia, he’d been surrounded by women, all soft curves and pretty eyes and tender souls. His father, as much as he’d tried to teach his son, had refrained from the more delicate subject of love and lust, leaving the boy with scant lessons in the matter that had trickled down from his mother; he knew he had the genetics to be useful in the field of courtship, at least from her. His father had given life to many children, Dragomir and his strange siblings Svello and Vihar included among the number, from many women.

It was normal to talk about females as conquests, he decided quite quickly, letting himself ease back into the conversation and awkwardly attempting to be a man for once in his innocent existence. That he is innocent is obvious in that he has completely missed the dark undertones of this stranger, even when confronted with the gleaming eyes of his war dragon, so easily swept under the truth by kind words and a friendly tone. That he is lonely and desperate for an outside source to regale his problems to only fuel the burning desire he has within him to not fail Tyradon during the length of this conversation.

He needs someone with the proper set of chromosomes, after all. There were things that ladies could not understand about growing men.

"She is beautiful," he agrees reluctantly, half expecting her to burst through the trees right at that moment, forcing him to deal with the issues he hid behind gleaming glass flowers, "and wise." Unsure how else to elaborate without delving into his endless fears that he was not a suitable counterpart for such a grand woman as she, he stares at the flowers in front of him. He can easily bring to mind the image of her standing alongside Kaj, or Lace, much more suitable and honorable men than himself, even though it pained him to think of his equine Goddess reproducing with a pegasus. It was not his place to judge her, not after all that he had done.

Not when she still showed him boundless kindness.

Cynder, much to Dragomir’s amusement, attempts to scald her bonded with a burning tail after a moment of silence in which he assumes words passed between their two minds, silent and unheard to him. It brings to mind a familiar sensation of being left out and a deep set anxiety that he is about to receive punishment or some long winded, boring story, reminded of the mental conversations between his parents and their dragons. Thankfully, it seems the words were based on his work, to which he smiles broadly and with a pride that floods him.

His smile lingers, though he attempts to smother it so as not to seem mocking, as Tyradon goes on to elaborate on his lack of fingers in comparison to his friend. The boy’s brows rise on his simple features as he hears the offer, not foolish enough to not expect something to be requested in return for the assistance being tossed at his hooves, but unable to know without asking. "Dragons are endlessly useful," he begins, slightly saddened for the billionth time in his life that he has yet to bond with one.

The only problem is that asking seems rude, and he’s not entirely sure how to go about it without seeming demanding. Either way, the Edge had plenty of dragons that he was sure would travel alongside their bonded to assist him if he only asked; the offer was not really of too much use to him, until a sudden idea washes over him, bringing a light to his face that burns and flickers with an inner enthusiasm. Our boy is smart, something he takes pride in, and Tyradon and Cynder are going to experience some of his lessons slowly gathered over years spent around the green’s wild kin.

"I’ve never tried it, you know," he says, words soft and rushed as he half heartedly gestures at the lack of dragon companion on his own shoulders, "but I’ve seen dragon’s flame in combination with cold water crack stone." Turning the nearest flower to him over with a soft, tinkling song, his blue eyes are misty with wonder as he replays the memory of two young dragons, battling it out for a mate alongside a waterfall; its enough to make a boy such as himself light headed, all the physics in play. "I’m sure you’ve seen metal and gemstones trapped in rock during your travels. Of more use than her fingers, her flame could gather things normally limited to those with the ability to move stone with their will. I have many uses in mind, for the metals, and especially diamonds, you see... I just haven’t been able to get a hold of any." He offers a blunted hoof to the air, about two foot from the earth, as proof, a gesture that almost mirrors the one Tyradon made to begin the topic on their teeth.

@[Tyradon]

He chuckles in time with Tyradon as the dragon prances and preens beneath Dragomir’s words, suddenly stifling the sound when the emerald clamps down hard on her bonded stallion’s rump and causes him to flinch. It didn’t seem kind to continue laughing at a joke or the humorous temper of the dragon when it was at the cost of this strange dark stag, though he does find the feisty little wyvern funny even when she’s abusing her master.

He nods in understanding of the man’s words, knowing how well that dynamic could push dragons into unusual social boundaries. His parent’s dragons, united in their own sort of reptilian love, were of green and bronze coloration, creating a similar hostility in them both as they battled for dominance in the relationship and among their bonded equines and the company they kept.

The question that comes to him next hits him like a ton of bricks, the young man feeling his ears slip to the side once again as he struggles to come up with a plausible excuse other than that he was too fearful to venture far or often. "My parents always said that fate led you to your bonded, not the other way around," he says, another reason he hesitates to search to hard for something he is sure will come to him in time if it is meant to be, "I haven’t found mine, is all. I trust their judgment; both are bonded."

As the topic turns to his craft, the boy can’t help but notice the way the man’s eyes gleam hungrily, but he misplaces it for the savage interest that he feels when presented with new knowledge rather than a lust for the power that such things can offer. The dragon takes to the skies and Dragomir watches her trail into a distant speck with Tyradon, turning his face back to the stag as he speaks. "I wouldn’t expect any different," he laughs, brows rising in good humor of the nature of gluttonous dragons.

His chuckling stills as a question meets him, and his eyes burn with happiness at being asked about his studies as he rotates more towards the stallion to explain his hypothesis. "Kahlua showed me how the stones can color the glass, and that glass can be heavily tempered by magical will to increase its strength," he rambles, words sticking closer together the more he elaborates and eyes wide with ponderous wonder, "but why waste time and energy? Diamonds are hard, harder than steel. Using a similar process to staining the glass with colored objects, you could use the density of the diamond to increase that of the silica particles that form whatever armor or tool one is making, in half as much time as reworking the glass. The product should be of similar damage resistance to at least amethyst or some of the softer gemstones, and more shock absorbent, so that it does not crack or fragment as glass would when impacted…"

Maybe this is why he doesn't get out much.