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.