Two came, at least obviously.

The first is a mare he does not know, adorned with wings and graced with deep chestnut coloring highlighted by large patches of white. She is very similar in color to his mother, something that draws a slight pang of melancholy and homesickness in his chest, but it is less than that which plagued him when he first came to this land, more of a sweet memory pooled in the lost days of his youth; he smiles at the pegasus mare, his awkwardness evident in the aimless fidgeting of his hooves and the way he occasionally dips his lips to scoot the shell to and fro on the stone.

The second is his friend, Semira, who is greeted with a much more comfortable gesture of welcome than Nasreen for the simple fact that he knows her; his dark lips smile and his head nods hello, hails and greetings rising from the two women who have come to join him in his lesson. A sigh of relief almost escapes him as he realizes that these two seem to be all the company he will have for the afternoon, a lot of the worry and pressure placed on him in his delusions of having to teach a large fold of students easing in the comfort of knowing it would only be one stranger on this day instead of many.

His muscles ease, his face slacks in its tension, and, much more easily than he had thought, the words come to him. "Welcome, I’m Dragomir, as you may have guessed from Semira," his smile turns to the painted pegasus and then to his friend, large frame stepping a few feet to the side as he grabs his rope from the branches holding the vines, dropping it down on the stone alongside the sap.

"I called everyone here to discuss the remains of the wall, but also to teach how to create this," he gestures down at the stone and rope with his muzzle, his smile flickering in the corners in his doubts that this will be interesting enough to merit a lesson, much less enthusiasm, "its rope made from vines, seemingly useless until you start testing the strength of it. I cannot give you the magic of the Moon, but I can teach what I know of using things that grow and exist around you to create without Godly assistance."

A sound outside the clearing causes his blue eyes to dart towards the source, at first thinking that it is only someone passing by until a familiar collection of dual colors catches his eyes in the shrubbery and causes his smile to most immediately vanish and his ears to fall back ever so slightly atop his head. He wonders if he should call to her, to invite her in, but the thought is painful, invoking the sharp pains of his broken heart, and he quickly returns his eyes to the stone table in front of him. Still, it doesn’t seem right to leave the Queen of his herd standing alone on the outskirts, even if she has wounded him unintentionally; it is not her fault he is unworthy of her admiration, for Dragomir, as young and naïve as he might be, understands that he cannot change anything outside of himself, especially as complex a thing as a woman’s heart.

He knows that, while he is filled with sorrow when he looks upon her, that Kahlua is still and always will be his friend. He cannot deny her that.

"Kahlua," he says softly, slowly lifting his eyes back to the poorly hidden figure of the painted damsel who had so sweetly captured him and riddled that cage with hopeless desire, "it’s not so intimidating a project you must hide from it." His laugh is short and bouncing, the sound deflated by the inner conflicts he seems to constantly have brewing within him, but it is sufficient enough to hide the outcry of his wounded spirit and is friendly enough as to seem a true, welcoming invitation to join them.

"Grab a fresh vine, everyone," he says, a pause filtering into his actions to allow Kahlua to join them if she chose but not a long enough one to make her feel pressured or focused on, the seamless transition from coaxing to teaching one that may seem wise and intuitive but is truly the stallion trying to hide his own writhing heart from the eyes of his students and companions. His stride is long as he moves again to the tree, pulling down a moderate length of vine and setting it on the ground before him, rolling a stone towards him from around the base of the large, nature made table and then balancing an end of the plant matter on the single stones surface. "You’ll need something to crush it over," he begins, lifting one large hoof over the vine and pressing down, adding slight agitation to the pressure of his weight by wiggling the hoof ever so slightly back and forth, "press down to hold it firmly against your crushing surface. The aim is to separate the individual fibers enough to make several strands from the single vine. Take your time and do not press to hard or you will tear the fibers lengthwise and lessen the efficacy of your final product." As he speaks, he works, occasionally dropping his muzzle down to fan out the individual, string like strands of the vine as it separates, letting the others look when they wanted and aspiring to remain as helpful as he could.