Seanan wheels, ceding the road the the silver stallion, maintaining a distinct body's length of distance between them.  He will not be crowded.  Despite his height, there is bred in him a desire to be free of the touch of strangers.  There is danger in closeness, in the press of bodies.  There is a trap there, where another could bring their greater weight into play, snapping his fragile legs as though they belonged to nothing more than an errant spider.  Even as he swings his hinds off the road and into the trees, not allowing himself to be crowded or herded, his dainty hooves so like the silver's find purchase in the soft loam, so much sturdier than oceans of sand and yet more forgiving than the diamond-like salt flats where the wind drinks the moisture from your breath.

The footing is uncertain for him, but he does not try and improve his footing.  He is likely to move anyways, too restless to remain in one place long.  It's the addiction,  the need to feel his blood rushing in his veins and his powerful heart thundering in his chest.

Then he speaks of gods and the beast is still.  Watching.  Listening.  For a moment the wind stirs the trees and a dabbled shadow crosses his face, darkening his eyes near to the color of blood.  Heart's blood.  He does not step back onto the road as the silver stranger passes.  Instead his lowered head stays pointed at the trees across the way- but he is watching.  There is no mistaking the steady regard and the pointed cock of one ear.  Even his thin tail has gone still and the twitching has still in his coat.  For a moment he good be a statue of abalone.

"Answers and recompense." The words are quiet.  There is still a strange quality to them, almost dreamy, but they lack the hectic pace of earlier.  As though time itself has slowed for him.  

"Answers and recompense."  The echo is barely a breath, hissed between near-closed teeth.  And yet his body doesn't move, standing in an odd portrayal of relaxed disregard.  As if the body is not quite attached to the mind.  Then his head comes up and there are riddle in his eyes and on his tongue.

"And how do you know that what you've seen are gods, little argent?  Are they benevolent, are they kind?  Are they terrible in their glory?" A soft laugh whispers from his throat, and somewhere there might be a hint of sarcasm in is half-lidded eyes as he flips his nosed up briefly towards the sky as if in delight, his short mane falling back for a moment to reveal the long gauntness of his neck.  "How do you know, what is a god and what is a devil?"  

Now he moves, a rush of white, reclaiming the road in a quick long stride so he takes up the position the silver stallion originally held upon their meeting.  And in a strange mockery his gangly form takes up a posture not unlike the younger stallion's.  Head tilted, tail twisting, all life now where before he was stone.

And his eyes are empty, rose tinted-mirrors.