As is often the case when Dragomir discovers something worth mention, it is entirely by accident, perhaps fate; it had once sent a branch down into some vines and inspired the discovery of that old glass armor that had been left there for God knows how long.

Today, he’s risen up over the rocky path and through the cold, dense mists of early morning and into the Heavenly Fields, his strides long and confident despite his usual lack of such things when presented with another soul. Much like his childhood, solitude suits him well; he knows he’s fine when he’s alone, that he won’t hurt anyone but himself and he can’t cause much more damage than what his massive hooves leaves behind or become bothersome.

Even as a colt, he’d been quite calm, albeit adventurous and full of wonder, and it was for similar reasons he’d wandered away from Requiem and Adalwulf to sprint with the dragons or climb the various peaks that adorned their isle. It’s not for such childish games that he wanders off alone today, as it hadn’t been the day he’d made his long goodbyes with his tearful dam and stoic sire and departed for Helovia (though he hadn’t known it was where he was going at the time, of course).

He’d wanted to find Isilme. He did, he thinks – but it wasn’t any place he’d ever want to go near enough to know for sure. His mother’s land, Avalon, was even further than Helovia had been from the isle of his birth, somewhere that Requiem was sure existed on the other side of the planet because she had gained entry to Isilme through a magical portal.

His strange mother; she’d never seen a pegasus or unicorn, a dragon or magic until she came to his father’s land and had fallen in love with it all. Dragomir couldn’t imagine a world like hers, one where there were only horses and nothing special ever happened like his glass or Semira’s grin.

And he wasn’t sure why he was thinking of home or Avalon on this day, not when for a long while he’d thought of the Edge as such things. Maybe that’s why he’s come out to this meadow that he knows is peaceful and overlooks the sea – because he’s missing his family, and wondering if they are well.

It’s when he steps up on the rise to watch the cold water tumble below that his hoof strikes a stone, and out pops a compacted chunk of clay and sand shaped and dried perfectly to the imprint of the inside of his sole. "What the -" he mumbles in a deep rumble, looking down at the rock and happily sighing as he realizes its only a stone and not something more heinous, likely missed while he walked and thought of happy but distant things. Its then he notices the little sculpture his hoof has made.

He nudges it over cautiously with his right hoof, observing the combination of grit and clay with blue eyes that light up instantly with thoughts and cunning mental connections. Is it hard? How hard is it?

He puts a bit of pressure down on it, to find it resilient for the most part; it scuffs, of course, but does not break, and he’s quite thrilled with the discovery. So thrilled, in fact, he snorts in excitement and quickly picks up the chunk of earth with his dark lips, spitting it back out almost immediately as its earthy taste meets his tongue and the particles seem to soften somewhat.

"Ick," he manages through a tongue that waggles helplessly in the air a few seconds before he thinks to wipe it away on his shoulder. That won’t be an appropriate way to get it home, he supposes, but does he really need to take it? All the thing is is clay and sand, surely he can remember that much and try his own experiments back home in the Edge.

@[Roux]