The boy is quiet, which Dragomir supposes is normal for a child who has no mother and must rely on the herd and kin around him to limp by; its not like he has any experience in such matters, having been one of three on an island that had been everything a boy could want in a birthland. His family had always been near, and was still there if he ever grew tired of Helovia and the friendships he had made there, if ever his soul was too weary to continue on the path that he had already set out upon. Kari didn’t have this option so openly available, and as the young stallion retrieves his gift from the grass and hears the faintly mumbled oh that falls from the colt’s mouth, he ponders precisely what sort of being such a childhood would bring to life.

But strange things come to pass as they begin their walk, normal at first as the youth elaborates on what he knows of the island; it’s been here a few days, and he nods that he has heard while his pale blue eyes roam freely about them. It makes sense that he knows of the isle before the Glazier, as even beneath the lustrous smell of the cherry blooms that drift lazily through the air and settle on the grasses like strange, pink birds, he can smell the sand on the boy’s body and figures that means he belongs to the Throat. He knows very little of that place other than that his Queen and King had decided to offer friendship to them, and that it is a desert south of the Heart, but its enough to allow him to decide that it was from their oasis in the heart of those sands that the people of the Throat had first seen the floating construct in the heavens.

Perhaps they had been the first to come.

These thoughts among others trail through the quiet crafter’s thoughts as their shoulders touch; it is only the smallest of embraces, barely noticed by the stallion who instead takes note of the way that Kari suddenly stops, his small limbs splaying and his eyes misty and rolling.

Dragomir balks, a few steps taken away from the strange sight, his smile flashing to fear evolving into worry in only a matter of moments. He takes a hesitant step forward and extends a dark muzzle to hover fretfully around the shuddering boy, not really too eager to touch him again or at all, for that matter, but worried none the less. After a few seconds that feels like eternity to the easily flustered and quiet man, it seems that Kari is again cognizant, but hushed – and he refuses to look at the sabino spattered glass worker for a long while (perhaps only minutes, but Dragomir is a strange bloke).

His trinket falls to the grass with a soft thud.

"What under Nieque’s hooves was that?" he blurts, his forgotten fear resurfacing now that its becoming more apparent that Kari is not going to die.

@[Kari]