[Not wearing dragon perch or saddle bags]

The stallion cuts an imposing figures as he waits by the wide world of rock. If he was, maybe, a stallion of war and battle, he would be a formidable opponent. Argetlam looks as if cut and hewn of rock and stone, but if it were true, no warrior would ever wear his heart on his withers. The thoughts that run through his head are the very same thoughts that cycled when he first entered the sugar white sands of the Moonlit Tides, of Isilme, long ago.

It had not been easy, forgetting thoughts of the war he had partaken in so briefly, before he was mowed down by enemy lines. Some would call him a fool for not honing warrior skills, not learning even the simplest of defenses. But only simple-minded horses were warriors, Argetlam often told himself. Again the broad, tall chunk of stone finds himself surprised by how similar his thoughts are. Isdira would shake her head in disappointment. 'See?' she would tell him, in her cynical voice. 'If you had just trained yourself as warrior, maybe the Tides would have won.' Maybe it would be something, closer, to the lines of 'even the dead could not beat you.' No, Isdira would not be so kind as to say that.

The stallion formed of rock and a bender of metal flicks his tail, a tail full of soot and dirt, changed from pale flaxen into a dirty blonde, grains of the earth settling in it. He has never been one for appearance, and one can tell the shambling stallion is one of those types immediately, through the way his mane holds stiff and grimy, hairs of a long tail charred and cut in different lengths, by no means intentional. Perhaps the stallion has always just been this way. He does look as if he has sprung up from the ground, as if he is but an oddly shaped piece of rock or tree.

Just like those ages ago, when he met the healer Silverline, the warrior Paladin and Áedán the giant, he wonders if there is a crafter residing nearby. Or is it another glass-bender? Glass-benders. Just as mother had said, they were quite normally just as fragile as the transparent materials that manipulated. Although Zar'roc had been surprisingly... hard.

It hadn't been an easy trip, the escape from Anarore. It had been long, even though this was only its neighbor- it probably hadn't helped he had gone touring for metal and scouting for a friendly home. Not a single little spot remained where the Shades did not exist. Admitting defeat, he had galloped long and hard, hooves a constant thunder, mane twisting in the wind. Upon Helovia, he had lurked in silence, under the surface, honing his skills and listening to the gentle heartbeat of metal. It was the source of metal, the seams of it, in the mountains tall that had drawn the massive stallion here, to the Foothills. Eyes settled on the monoliths were open longing. So much untapped metal! Did they have a crafter? Hm. Who knows? If they needed him, they could take him.

Provided they didn't expect him to serve in any wars anytime soon.

""