"Hello, friend," Another soul walks along the glades of the Threshold, the entrance to Helovia, the beginning of many new and wonderful journeys. Unlike the mare, so petite and slender and fine, he is broad and tall and rough-hewn like a chunk of stone, and covered in fine dust and dirt. At a glance, the tall stallion would not look like much of a settler, and more of a traveler, but he was a stallion with a home. He was simply searching for more of his family, the ones he was certain could be found within the entrance to this new pretty land. Certainly there would be another kindred soul looking for a good land with sweet grass and shelter. Argetlam could offer that.

Argetlam could offer the Foothills in all it's glory. The rolling hills, like the curves of an old sway-backed mare's back; the mountain peaks tall and crisp against the sweet sapphire of the skies yonder. That was how he came across the mare, all long-legged, wide-eyed, lush-figured beauty, and the stallion found himself shy as ever. And she had a pendant.

His eyes grew round and wide with shock and immediate like. Anyone who knows of such finery must certainly be a civilized persona. He had not met anyone with a jewel around their neck. "You have a necklace, I see. I am a crafter; I am fond of such things." The stallion speaks cheerfully, with a wry smile to his face, and he finds his deep voice a little less slow, with a little less stutter. Jewelry! Is it strange how much it eases him? "I am Argetlam." His voice softens suddenly and he looks at his hairy forefeet, the sunlight sparkling in his straw-like mane and glittering and flashing in the silver barette of his tail.

[Currently not wearing perch or saddle-bags!]

For a long, lingering moment all was silent, and she seemed caught in a nest of her own thoughts. Her mane was long, incredibly long, and it trailed along the soft green grass, thick tendrils of creamy hairs swirling in the dirt and grass altogether. Then she smiled, a tentative smile, but a grin nonetheless, that made her feel altogether more warm. Argetlam returned it in kind to the antlered mare.

The lovely mare offered her title as Arah. Names say a lot about a character, just like the way they move; a name can be fitting as a metal band or doesn't quite ride right. Arah is a light, airy name, free of any restraining things, an innocent name. His own name is Argetlam, 'Silver Hand', a most suitable name considering his excellent ability to shift and craft metal, manipulate it into fitting forms. In fact, the stallion does so now, feeling the soft heartbeat of magnesium in the ground, and so he extends his thought, pulling it out carefully, and continuing to do so. Around his hooves the metal erupts, coming up to eye level, turning and twisting as he molds it into a feather, a shiny gray feathers with details almost intricate; then it slips and fastens to her horn, and he proffers a tentative smile again.

"Crafting is a lovely thing to be able to do." He pronouces, but with a tone of a gentleman, and the stallion finds himself surprisingly happy to be in her company- a voice interrupts his opening mouth. The stallion turns his head, and finds his soft amber eyes settling on a filly, a young thing who cannot be much older than just weaned. "Hello, little girl," Argetlam says softly, his stutter and quavering voice eased by the presence of the mare named Arah. She, in turn, gives him nothing more than an aloof greeting, and abruptly turns attention to the pale mare.

Perhaps if he was a more spiritually powerful individual, he would have continued on to say something hard and return the filly's rudeness. But he was nothing but a kind, sweet soul. "We are in Helovia, Arah. You are welcome to choose any place, but I am a horse of the Windtossed Foothills, a herd near the mountains. It is a wonderful place. There are three other herds; one to the west, near the coast, another to the south, in a desert warm, and one to the north, a place only accepting of unicorns."