It is raining.
It begun as a light drizzle, hardly more than a veil of mist. Clouds had come rolling, proud and thick, deep gray and painted with loose, easy strokes of a paintbrush dabbed in black. For a long minute, before the rain truly began to come falling down, it seemed the world turned gray, painted in forlorn drab ivory and silver, a ghostly cast over the Foothills. Tall, snow-laden peaks, even in the middle of summer, are hidden by the gray cloth of the miserable darkness driving down. Then the rain began to lash, a cold rain that did not stop and seemed to penetrate every inch of a horse's skin and made the flesh wrinkle and their head bow.
Argetlam had went to search for cover, for the few twisted, bowed trees that had crumpled under pressure of the wind that often swept across the rolling hills, sending the green and tawny grass rippling. The draft was huddled under one of the trees, hindquarters turned to the wind, the wind that encourage the rain to keep abusing horses soggy and damp. It was morning, but you couldn't tell from the thickness of the clouds. Dejecting, desolate, depressing, that's what it was, the peaceful giant thought glumly.
Normally the Windtossed Foothills was clarion, sapphire-skyed place full of gentle beauty. It was sheltered from bitter winters and the mountains cast long, dark shadows that tossed the blistering heat of Tallsun away. To say the least, it was a secluded place, but nevertheless a gorgeous one, and one always beating with the steady heartbeat of metal.
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