She made a good guess to assume he was young, in more ways than just his physical being; shy, awkward and unused to the responsibility that had suddenly become his life, Dragomir skirts through life using means of avoidance to spend time with himself. It may seem like a mature thing unless one was to truly pull apart the layers of his heart and find that, while he was a bashful soul, he would not be so much so were it not for the lessons he had been taught as a child, leaving him all the more reserved and strange around those who were not built in a similar way to himself.

He had experienced love, and like a babe had wept and fled when he’d asked it to hold him back; he had been through a few moments of tense violence, as well, that had proven he lacked the even keel and solemn composure of a grown man.

And, as the female voice draws his eyes towards her, a pale white mare with locks of rippling snow and wearing a golden horn, the subtle surprise that reveals itself most immediately on his mask can only further confirm the suspicions of this woman that he has little experience on which to base his foundations on – quite simply, even if she had truly arrived without his notice, he should at least try to cover that shock on his face.

He does not. He isn’t the sort to really be concerned with how others think of him, at least not strangers that he owed no allegiance or good will towards. His dark nostrils flicker as he inhales her scent, strange and mingled with the myriad meadows and forests that dapple the lands between each sanctified herd, ears lifted to catch her question as his lips curve into a smile and he chuckles, more benevolent by far than he had been during his last meeting with one of the horned along his border – probably because this one was honest in her lack of knowing, and didn’t toss rude words about that pertained to those he loved and felt deep concern for.

"The Moon’s land," he says as he trots over towards her, large hooves darting and dancing between the flakes and shards of glass that are strewn through this patch of forest, halting with little to no ado before the ivory fae, "more commonly called the World’s Edge."

She is very pretty, he takes instant notice of as he comes within a clear view of the delicate lines of her face and the composed way that her small frame flows from one part to another. Aside from the horn on her face, he decides that she is quite a suitable representation of the most powerful magic all women on Loorien had been given as a birthright.

Beauty, a thorn that shreds a thousand hearts.

Still, he’s reserved, his chosen position to hold the conversation one that places himself pretty squarely between the lass and the next open section of the wall, not sure if she’s welcome within for he does not know her and not wanting to risk her making her way through their borders, intentional or not; he’s never seen a situation in which the Edge had an intruder rather than a visitor, so open minded and kind were its civilians, but he was loathe to see what would become of an unwanted guest once the Dragons were done with them.

That, and he doesn’t trust her, like he trusts no one since what had come to pass that day in the rain streaked grove. Behind even the most jovial and friendly of offers, dangerous and horrifying things could hide. Still, she is smaller than him by quite a large margin and he has a whole herd to back him should she do anything stupid so close to their family, and she doesn’t seem to be anymore of a threat than the harmless gleam of the glass against the forest floor.

"I am Dragomir, a Glazier of the kingdom beyond the wall," he offers in greeting with a disappointed air to the way he says the word "wall" (for it is not truly such a thing anymore), hoping as is custom that she will return her name to him.

@[Sheba]