She is friendly enough, he gladly takes note of, observing the lightening of her eyes at his fumbling words but also seeing a sadness in their depths as she casts their weight out towards the Edge. That she knows his home fills him with some pride, and wonder as to whether or not she was once one of them too – and, if that had been the case, why she was no more. He takes in her scent again with all the secrecy he can muster and discovers that she smells like no where at all, as if she lives in the wind and truly is the sky as he first thought her to be.

What a strange woman.

When she looks back to him she’s smiling, and he can’t help but return the gesture but finds it falling as soon as she admits to him that he supplied all the wrong answers before landing on the right one. His grimace of failure is short lived, however, as the sky painted mare admits that all of it was interesting and in thus must have been pertinent to the inquiry in some way. He often, at these moments, finds himself wondering why his parents hadn’t taught him more of their eloquence, neither of the once leaders having stumbled on their tongues as often as he found himself.

She says all this as she walks closer, the stallion eyeing her with the usual reservation that he regards all strange things with but feeling less of the usual rush of anxiety flood him, his experiences in Helovia having deepened his resolve against the fear of the unknown and the cleansing water of his home having stripped him of most notions that the winged and horned would kill him as soon as learn his name. The world, for all his parents had said it would be, was not so; most he had found here were kind, especially those of the Edge, so wonderful each soul that he often found himself feeling as if he was not truly meant to be among them, if Mirage had been wrong by thinking he might belong.

Still, he is here doing work for them, in a position of great honor. He knows he should not doubt himself so much when it is obvious they see value in him – but he worries none the less.

What she asks him causes a brightness to flood his gaze and all worry to vanish beneath the undulating enthusiasm he feels when he thinks of his projects and the security he has found in creating things. It was one aspect of life he could completely control – the glass never did anything but what he asked it to, and while the rope was not of magical nature and thus more prone to failure on his behalf, he had thoroughly enjoyed the learning and work he had put into the straps he now wore across his back. That the mare (who is quite smaller than him, he finally notices now that he has something to focus on other than the massive breadth of her wings) wants to know about it invokes the same reaction from him it always does.

A lot of words.

"So many things," he says wistfully, "it carries a lot more weight than the vine does naturally, and so it makes excellent carrying straps. I also figured it could be used in combination with slats of flat bark or stone to create stacked storage surfaces by simply tying the ropes to a high branch and running the rope through holes on the end of each tier, knotting it in places to hold them fast at the height they require. The sap stiffens it and holds the ends in place. Its theoretical that the rope could be woven over a chunk of glass and covered in sap then slowly heated to hardness – I could go back and remove the glass to leave a receptacle." And so it continues, his deep voice rumbling and brusque in comparison to his usual cheerful but droll way of speaking. "Of course if it can make baskets it should also make nets. I’ll need to learn how to weave those, if I ever figure out how to lessen the width of the rope without loosing the strength. That then leads to jewelry and other more delicate things as well…"

He realizes he is rambling, his smile growing wry and aware as his crystal gaze twinkles in apology. "Many things," he says again with a laugh.

@[Cirrus]