"Hail, stranger." Odd coloured eyes regard the mauve scholar with an air of quiet curiosity, shimmering in the lowlight as all divine things do. Incandesent, a pearl held up and marveled between reverant hands. Alive and snapping in the next instant, pale muzzle quirking up at the corners, a half-smile, secretive as hastily written notes hidden beneath a pillow at wolf hour. "It's warm today, is it not? One would be hard pressed to find this suitable weather unless they're born here."

Orias had grown up in a City upon a cliffs edge, salt winds and ocean spray. White marble structures gold dipped and woven by magic and an artisans dreaming touch. Warmth had always been balmed by the grace of the Sea, Solterra offered little in the way of buffering from the blistering crown of the Sun God himself. Save for the shadowed places beneath crumbling spires, weathered and worn through the ages. Monuments to history Orias would never witness, even if somehow, they came to hold Solterra close in their breast. The ultimate meaning and depth of the Land's history and it's inhabitants triumphs and pitfalls would mimic the thoughts and feelings one harbored after reading a particularly thrilling book. Certainly not superficial and artificially crafted, but it would be a shallow pool to sip from, given a lack of empathetic tetherings and lack of involvement to root them deeper.

In time, he thinks. His hourglass is full, firmly wrapped between the vestiges of his own design. They can tip it one way and then the other.

Stepping closer, hooves bellchime sweet against the cracked and sun kissed stones beneath their feet, leonine tail coiling around their hocks. "Orias," they greet, head tilting while gold horns glimmer. "And you are?"

Long ears flick forward at the sound of laughter, putting a somewhat sly smile on the Kirin's features. "I've never had the pleasure of desert temperatures without some kind of balm, an ocean wind to take the edge of that dry heat we're experiencing. Should I ever find myself in Terrastella, I'll make sure to be suitably prepared to sweat myself into oblivion and then some." The last part comes out impish, long white lashes obscuring a golden eye.

"Silasthein," It comes out pleasant on the tongue, an excellent parallel to the pastel twilight hues that bedeck the stallion so. It reminds him of old stone near mirror lakes, overgrown by frost vines and ice blooms. Earthen, but not. "Does it stand for something?" Honest and earnest. Orias can list the forebearers of their name, down to the detail. Such is the privelege and curse of long lineage. Eventually the pool runs dry of spectacular names, and parents turn to pilfering their ancestors in the name of honor, glory and acceptable parenting choices. Let no poor name be the noose on which your parenting reputation starts from.  

I take it that you're a traveler too.

"Is it the accent that gives it away?" Orias inquires, light as a swift winged swallow in flight. Amused as glass spun chimes in spring wind. He wagers many who come and go over these stones don't have the Solar Court imprinted into their bones, stamped by the Sun. Their accent certainly gives them away, melodic in it's accent, sweet in delivery. Certainly heavy by some standards, compared to those he's listened to by lamplight and by accident, who have given him pause once or twice. Mundane is not so bad, it helps to blend and obscure, why pick the wilting flower on the wall when you can have the onslaught of vibrancy of a louder, more proud flower?

A daisy is no match for the dahlia.

"I'm not from here, but I'm not the first of my family to come walk this land either." They concede with a gracious nod of their defined head, tilting a fraction to the left at the last moment as they watch Silas. Silently taking notes, little anecotes hastily scribbled in margins. His previous assumption of the stallion's struggle is correct, though the depth is yet to be determined. But Orias has never been the sort to stand by and watch someone haplessly struggle, waiting for them to swallow pride and ask for help. Stepping forward, a spotted shoulder dips, polite and concerned. Something to lean against if Silas required it, the courtly extended hoof, open for the intended to take should they wish it. Orias was brought up with manners after all, and being an aid to those who need it was one of the firsts. Besides, his companion struck him as a genuine sort, the kind who they could get along with without effort or enforced patience.

"I never miss an opportunity to attend festivals, especially in good company."