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.