[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.

""

The first thing that annouces her arrival is the scent of stone and moist earth, of summer breezes and rotting leaves, a smell that one might think is unpleasant but the stallion thinks of quite an attractive aroma. He's always had a bit of an affinity with earth, despite his true love lying in metal. Iron... silver... gold... any metal. He had no restrictions of his ability to manipulate the seams of it. Iron ears twitch, flicking forward as the grass rustles, under lightly treading feet.

The way one walks can say a lot about them. Their character, their motivations, their loves. It's surprising, actually, the way you can learn so much by just watching. Argetlam never had been much of an observer, but nevertheless one did eventually begin to notice smaller, more obscure details over the years that were hidden by youth and excitement the times before. He walks in a shambling, rambling way himself, loose-legged and long-strided, easy, relaxed quite often- the way a horse with no purpose, at least none that he is aware of, moves. It is quite unlike the dark fae's purposeful, graceful tread, quiet purpose and knowing, so very feminine. For a moment Argetlam watches her in mild surprise- does everyone here know their place? He sure didn't- and then his thoughts compare her to Paladin, and Silverline. Silverline was graceful, easy, much like her, except his face had seemed more weary and more friendly. It probably had to do with him being a healer. Paladin was all warrior, masculinity in its prime, with a proud bearing, but not haughty- a fine line to tread but with very distinct differences, haughtiness and pride.

This mare is also quite different from them, in build. She has no red-tinted mane, no, instead she has a mane of pure ebony waves, as dark as the stone itself. Broad-backed, compact, with a finely-sculpted face, large expressive eyes that are ever so slightly haughty but mostly just cold, and she moves with startling silence, as if the grass parts way for her small hooves. The dark ocher, copper-tinted coat is broken by small white markings along her gray feet, white coronet bands. Argetlam exhales in quiet disappointment- she has not a single piece of metal, of jewelry or finery to disrupt her, or rather, ornament her frame.

When she speaks, her voice is at contrast to her warmly, if not plainly, coloured build. It is cold and icy, not gruff, but like a douse of freezing water on his large head. The metal Cre blinks, shifts his weight rather awkwardly. He hopes not everyone in this land speaks so crisply, so uniformly, voice kept under careful, tight maintenance. If so... he would not fit in quite at all.

"I am Argetlam, son of Ignasia, of Dras Leona." Not as much as he was. He had not been in Dras Leona for quite a while, anyways, after settling in the Tides of Isilme. No matter how brief his stay had been, he had parted from the silken sands in despair. Amber eyes, soft and slightly shy, blink at the mare slightly owlishly, before he continues in his gruff yet rather socially awkward chords- "Are you in need of a crafter here? I see you bear no items of metal, and a shame that is." Argetlam flicks his straw-like tail, in both color and consistency, and smiles gently, hesitantly. Maybe I should've waited before asking about becoming a crafter. Maybe not. Argetlam had never been good at holding conversations with others.