The rest of the World’s Edge had seemed busy with the temple as of late, which, Dragomir supposed, he couldn’t discredit them.  He did, after all, feel very strongly towards the patronage of the Goddess, having lived in her wood for so many years, but it wasn’t the same sort of love that he felt for the Earth, or the old Gods his parents had painted with their words when he was but a foal.  So, though he admired the Moon and appreciated that she was such a studious caretaker of her people, the painted man was also not first in line to thrust himself into such activities. 
 
Let those who sought to fill their hearts with a sense of servitude to a Goddess they believed they owed, instead.  All he would be doing would be moving rock and bramble, not furrowing channels for Divine love to flow within his heart, as many of them were doing; so, he instead did what he enjoyed to do most, and what made him feel as if he were routing channels from the universe into his soul.
 
Creating.
 
Not with stone or metal, this time, but with rope, several types of cordages woven from different fibers of various diameters spread out before him, each natural and less than perfect, but sturdy, and supple.  He’s spend most of the early morning into the late afternoon crushing and weaving the strands, and now that he’s got everything set out and ready to begin his true studies, the craftsman has taken a moment to simply relax.
 
Dust dances in the heavy, golden Tallsun air, the last dregs of the dreamy heat that had accompanied this serenely cool season promising, with the droop of the weary boughs and leaves upon the trees, that Orangemoon was soon to come.  With lazy sways of his tail and an even lazier expression, one lip droops like those leaves above, and his ears flick leisurely atop his head, casting what flies land upon them back into the air (for a moment, anyway).  With a heady sigh of relaxation, the humble man breathes in the wonderful day, and silently thanks the Earth God for creating such a beautiful world for everyone to share, here in Helovia, and Father Nieque, for the blood coursing through his veins, giving him opportunity to behold such splendor at all.

 

Even the way his name is formed reminds him of the years long ago, when all his friends had lived here, together, and the wood had been filled with the voices of dragons. Lifting his head from his drowsy rest and blinking the encroaching sleep from his sky-bright eyes, the somber stallion feels a pressure in his chest that feels like loss and happiness all in the same bundle.

It is not Semira, he notes, most immediately, but her sister, Amaris; of the two, he has been less close to the gold, than he was her cheerful sibling. Having shared many afternoons in the shade with the other dragon-mare of the Edge, it is joyful as much as it melancholy to see Amaris again. Not because she makes him sad – he’s quite happy to see her, actually, from the faint smile which traces his lips, and the way his lazy ears lift – but the memory of how much he missed her sister, and that the sight of her inspires that hole to become most poignantly clear.

He remains quiet when she makes her way towards him, her wings that, once might have frightened him, or made him nervous, now mostly just remind him of home, and the awkward boy he once was. She, like him, has changed, her demeanor less reserved and cool than it had been when they’d last met, replaced instead with a good natured cheer that all the more reminded him of long missing Semira. Other changes are less evident, and seek to elude his gaze; glancing up as a leaf tumbles down from above, he barely spies the gleam of gold through the boughs overhead, and figures, as she was surely bound to at some point in her life, the dragon-mare had bonded to a dragon worthy of her vibrant scales.

Just like her sister, Dragomir is unsure as to whether or not Amaris is aware of the sort of reverence her being inspires in a man who had been raised to believe dragons were sacred. That she so easily enfolds him in a conversation, much like her sister used to, is an enchantment that quickly steals him, and with an awkward smile, he does his best to accommodate the friendly Goddess in his crafting grove.

It is good to see you again too, Amaris, he warmly tells her, offering the mare his muzzle, to exchange breath in a traditional equine greeting (he didn’t have elemental breath to say hello as dragons did, after all); shy, as usual, what eye contact is made by Dragomir during this gesture (if she accepts) is minimal, especially with a gaze as harrowing as a dragoness’, I haven’t been home very long. Only since the end of Birdsong, when the Earth God sent his herd away.

In case she tries to apologize to him (most everyone else had), he offers her a warm smile, quickly adding:

I didn’t live there long, either, though, he chuckles, managing to find humor in it all, despite the rather frightening reason why the herd had been disbanded in the first place, it’s almost as if the Goddess or some other higher being wants me here. Who is your handsome friend, overhead?

He asks, knowing that one of the best ways to dragon's heart was flattery, and rather keen, himself, on getting to see the gold with better scrutiny.

Laughing as the dragon stills his motions, seemingly more offended by the idea of having been noticed than that notice involving complements, the man finds he misses the Dragon Isle with a pang of homesickness that still occasionally threatens to overwhelm him. Of course, now that memory of home also comes with loss, rather than just joy and family, and so there is an air of bitterness to the otherwise sweetly recollected, humid and dragon riddled jungle land of his youth. He also has many tender and wonderful things to think of here, in the forest of mists, such as Letha, Ranjiri, Alysanne, and the others he had befriended in his years here; as Amaris introduces her bonded and the crafter looks upon her with his blue eyes, perhaps he also has more of home here than he thinks he does.

Grinning as she winks and the dragon sequentially appears from the canopy above, even more offended at being called grumpy than he was at being noticed, apparently. He is gold, which, like Amaris, Dragomir finds strange; most royal males were bronze, and most also had fire breath. Dramyrth proves to be peculiar in both rights, his puff of frosty breath earning a curious but enthralled glance from the tri-colored stallion.

Your mother always said that Helovia was not the same as Isilme, he smiles, deciding its fitting; Isilme was, after all, where his dragon based knowledge stemmed from, due to his family’s heritage, and the islands near proximity to the land of the Original Three, yet, I agree, it is peculiar. My mother’s male was bronze, always envious of the gilded females for being faster and stronger than he was. It might have crushed his spirit to meet Dramyrth here. No female would ever look at him again, so he’d be sure.

Smiling in memory of my mother’s arrogant Israfel, and how, surely, Niddhoggr would still care for him as she always had, even with gold males about, attempting to win her affections, Dragomir actually is the one to continue talking, for once.

When did you bond with him? he asks with an interested grin.

[ OOC: I'm the worst D: so slow with poor Dragomir ]