Argetlam was eating, nibbling at the stalks of grass green and tall, cutting them down to the soft earth. His head and neck would sway in a half-circle radius, and then he would pause, head lift, ears flick around, and take a step forward, and repeat the process of grazing again. Even if he was a gentle creature of warmth and metal-crafting, Argetlam nevertheless was a creature of prey, even in a horse-dominated land. It would just be simply silly to ignore the wind that tells stories of predators, or to be oblivious to your surroundings. Hence his head-lifting and occasional sniffing as the great gray draft, nearing eighteen hands, drifts towards the border of the verdant green foothills.

The shade is cool on his silver back, his dapples standing out like pale leaves fallen upon his broad hindquarters and shoulders; his mane, coarse and dusty, lies in tangles across the smooth, uninterrupted muscle of his neck, only held in check by the silver barrettes clasping great chunks of the flaxen hair. On occasion one of the stallion's gray or tan hooves hit a rock on the compacted soil; and his silver clasps flash in the seeping light of the sun. Despite the quiet clinking of his horseshoes hitting stone, or the gentle huff of his breath, the forest is surprisingly quiet. Birds are a bit of a commodity here, it sometimes feels. The forest is a silent place, the trees grand guardians and the mountains a shield.

Argetlam loves the Foothills in such a huge, monstrous way it is near-unbearable to think of leaving it; it is home, a peaceful home that has no need for warriors. Unicorns and equines lay in equality here- he has not found any pegasi, and even despite the acceptance of all, it seems horses are the predominant of the green land near the mountains tall. Nadira is the only mare he has met with a horn upon her brow; extend that to all horses, in fact. Argetlam wonders if other horses in the Foothills look so- he has not seen another originating from here. Yet she had said she had been recruited by Boltar. Was Boltar, maybe, a crafter as well? Perhaps he specializes in bolts of sorts.

One of his periodic checks or another, he scents a mare. An outcast, with the scent of wilderness about her, and feeling it is his duty, Argetlam moves, silver horseshoes clinking on the stone, towards the origin. It takes a little longer than he expected, to be honest, but he arrives soon enough. "May I help you?" Another greeting might have been more suitable, but that is what comes from his mouth, and so hopefully it will do.

The mare stalks closer to him. Warrior, his mind whispers, and he finds himself stilling slightly in despair, maybe even 'shrinking' in presence of the vixen. For vixen she is, her face sculpted into a delicate dish-like creation, eyes huge and sparkling lavender, or magenta, or some sort of violet and indigo that shines like the stars; her lashes, black and bold, are long, sharp, against the molten gold that ripples down her tawny-tan coat. The only thing that disrupts the image of perfection, from the faded barring on her legs to the slim stripe down her back, to the dark ebony mane wild and knotted and tangled, is the snip upon her nose, a pale pink.

It takes a great effort to hold his limbs still as her eyes meet his, her head seemingly tilted just so that her throatlatch is long and smooth; her eyes are enchanting, and her movements elegant and exaggerated in a passionate way, so unlike Argetlam's lumbering. When the mare speaks, her voice is unerring harsh and hard, a cruel beauty to it; and it pours water over his head. The stallion does not shiver, as his spine tingles despite the sunlight warm through the spacious trails between the tall trees.

He would have assumed that she was asking to join the herd, but the voice had startled him into a brief moment of... blankness? A moment where he blacked out? Drifted away. For her voice sounded like Isdira's rough, normally uncaring voice. He can almost imagine her sooty charcoal form between the pines, materializing out of the shadow, gruff as ever, head down as she works with the coal, permanently dusted black. "Don't pin your heart where all can see, for someone will take advantage." An echo of her blunt words; and the stallion stirred slightly, coarse flaxen tail flicking away the flies. Flies! They buzzed everywhere, annoying like insects, nipped him and bit him. His head shook firmly, ridding of the black insects crowning the tear duct of his eyes; filthy bugs.

"I cannot give you a title as I am sure you deserve, but I may give you allowance to enter the Windtossed Foothills' ranks, if you so desire...?" He lets his quiet voice fade momentarily, the drone of the bugs between them, hoping she would offer her name, and then marches on in his soft, deep tone. "If you are to become my herdmate, I think it only fitting to know my name. I am Argetlam." The deep gray dapple fixes a slightly worn, tentative smile on his face.

The mare's lips seem to shiver in the urge to release a torrent of words, and yet the mare built so smoothly and seamlessly holds them inwards as she comes closer to him. Overpowering Argetlam comes the scent of worn dirt and earth, winds and somewhere far-off, the eau de outcast; and he is momentarily reminded of his own time of loss and worn traveling. Isdira hadn't come to say goodbye to him. The night before he fled, moving as swiftly as he could, had been a particularly bad night. "Argetlam, craft items to fight! It's for your family!" Arya, his mother, had begged of him, her gray coat flashing in the sunlight, gems assorted in her mind sparkling. Gifts from him, most of them had been. On the other hand, Ignasia, Father, had taken a harder approach, surly as ever. "Fight, boy, that's what the Dras-Leona do." Gruff, chiding, hard.

Her breath is hot on his check, warm and moist, sends him backing away swiftly, forgetting his solemn, unheard promise to remain steady in spite of her liquid eyes and golden coat, her cool, almost frosty manner. Does she mean that he is... poorly colored? Is it a compliment or an insult? Maybe both. Did she turn bitter because of not being colored gray? He liked being gray. It was a nice, solid color, a down-to-metal color. It looked as if she was a bender of sunlight, of golden rays, if she was a manipulator, but he had never heard of a sun-bender. Was it even possible? Argetlam's thoughts slowly lose cohesion, rambling and scrambling, until he finds himself circulating back to where he began. Was it a compliment or insult? Or rather, did it warrant a 'thank you'?

Argetlam decided it would be best to simply incline his great stone-like head and keep any thanks inside his mind.

As her coat quivers, shaking off the flies, she glows with an ethereal beauty, the sun glittering on her fine coat, the shadows deep around her in sharp contrast, just as he too is silhouetted by the sun filtering through the pines. It gives her an almost liquid appearance. Argetlam, as ever, looks as if chiseled from stone and rock, carefully carved and cut, the only color quite so different from the gray his eyes. Amber eyes, soft and warm. Then the silence is interrupted by her silky tones, and he finds himself needing to give her response. "It is good to meet you, Ailith. Where do you hail from?" Argetlam answers in turn, leaving her first comment alone and without thanks, although he finds himself a little more relieved. It's quite clearly a compliment as opposed to her first strange... whatever it was.

Argetlam is not quite sure if the silences are a good thing; a reprieve from the mare's cool, harsh vocals and slightly mocking way, or a bad thing, impoliteness and a lack of cordiality. His tail, hair stiff and matted into the appearance of coarse straw, flick up to brush his flanks, the quiet whap of his thickly knotted tail interrupting the lazy silence stretching what seems like an eternity between the two of them. Ailith rested herself, relaxing her haunches with her tranquil cat-like grace; the dark stallion might even describe it as predatory grace, he wasn't quite sure he liked the way she moved.

It was... sexually appealing. And he wasn't... a sexual stallion.

Yes, that's how he would describe it, the dapple decided. His resolution was only confirmed by the slow, excruciatingly slow, blink of her long-lashed lids; slowly shutting over violet eyes that sparkled magenta. Or maybe it was the other way around. Her tones still lazy, still easy as ever- but did he imagine the mischievous glint, as if she had picked up on his discomfort, or was he imagining it- and flashed open as she spoke about the wild hills and forests she had come from. Nowhere, in other words.

"I traveled for a good while myself," Argetlam quietly said, and he had quite a bit, trying to settle into a place where all was peaceful and quiet, somewhere accepting of him and his sometimes strange ways. Did she have family? Did she miss somewhere, someplace she used to call home? The crafter did. He missed Isdira's irritable, gruff ways, Ignasia's bluntness, and Arya's soft, encouraging words. Regardless of all of their differences, they were family; and he had still abandoned them like a coward. Was it cowardly of him to fly? Hadn't he just... did what was right? Either way, he wouldn't be allowed back there. Not just in a week, or a month, or a year; but never. In a way, he had committed himself to his own exile.

"Let's walk- it may keep the flies away." Argetlam suggested peaceably, and turn hesitantly, before setting his legs forward and continuing his ambling, slightly wavering path between the trees, into the pools of molten sunlight glittering on the green fronds of the forest floor. It was a gentle push towards acceptance; a sweet, innocent act of 'let's get to know each other'. At least, the metal-bender hoped that's what it was.

Intimately he feels as if by looking at her in a way a man looks at a concubine, he has done something wrong. Did Argetlam imagine the trace of scorn in her eyes before she looked the other way, feminine and slender as ever? He did not think so. Instead, he felt deeply wrong. I didn't intend to look like that, the metal-bender wanted to tell her, and apologize, and offer his condolences for his behavior, but the words dried up on his tongue when he opened his mouth. The gentle peace-keeper did not dream of forced breeding and intimacy, or of having a harem of mares as some might. Mares were equal to stallions, just as the breeds were equal to each other, the stallion was convinced.

The dark stallion, so crudely colored as Ailith has said, moves with long, awkward strides, shifting from side to side, weaving slightly, never quite moving purposefully or acting as if he has a destination. Here and there he pauses for a moment, nostrils flaring, but aside from Ailith's wild-scent he does not detect anything in the warm summer's air. It takes him a while to answer the question she poses him, and he thinks through his answer carefully in that simplistic, easy way he does.

First of all, what is a prison of mindless souls? She said lost. But mindless souls seem to be often the same material as lost, for a lost horse does not know where to go or what goals he, or she, has in this life. "A lost soul is frequently the same as a mindless." Argetlam said slowly, puzzling through the conundrum she had presented him with. Call him whatever you like, but he was not the most intelligent of individuals, or clever. Peaceful, gentle, caring, and open to the world, but he was simple. If he didn't understand something, he left it to others to understand. No confusion. Only focusing on his dreams and goals. A moment or two later he announces abruptly; "This is not a prison, if that's what you mean. You are free to choose whatever path you want, to achieve what you want. We are your family, and we will accept you unless you strive to break us apart, no matter how well or not-well you know us." A pause, and then- "The only horse who can push you somewhere is yourself."

As for his own goal, his own driving force, would Ailith laugh at him? Smirk? She seemed a fox, not a warrior, a sleuth not a fighter, but nevertheless he couldn't drive the feeling she would snicker. Yes, they were, surprisingly enough, seeming to become friends, despite their outlandish differences, but stopping war? Surely anyone would laugh at that. At reluctant last, the metal-bender mutters, his voice soft and words awkward, "My own goal is to invent something that stops war. No more fighting. Not ever." Because war breaks families apart. War separates children from parents. Battles strip us from our morals and wants. Argetlam hopes dearly she won't laugh, turning his head from her to gaze off through the trees, through the golden light and the tall trees. Please don't laugh. It was strange- when had her opinion suddenly meant so much to him? He was always sensitive, but did he really care this much?

Argetlam glances at her, shy as a filly fresh out of the womb, ears tipped into a relaxed position, one swiveled to her and the other moving on occasion, catching the sounds of the world around them; the crunch of leaves as a deer leaps away, tail flashing white in alarm; the steady, constant heartbeat of the metal in the earth, the chirps of the glittering birds. Looking back to his long, rambling sentences, he feels distinctly as if his words were simply a play, but not a fancy puppet-show, but one where the characters look the same. Of course, the metaphor for it is just as... scrambled, he feels. Maybe improper would be a better word.

Much to his relief, Ailith seems to understand it, despite the way the words meander and fiddle and hesitate, and offers him a smile that eases his fretting. The stallion is sensitive, caring, and totally, superbly not confident, perhaps his most predominant downfall; but Argetlam would rather be not-confident with many good traits than being outgoing with many bad ones. As much as that does not make sense... Even more so than usual his tongue seems a little twisted. Argetlam ponders the depth of her words in turn. I only hope that you could find as much in me. Does she put that much value into him? What did he think of her? Well... she was slender and pretty, and golden-coated, but somehow he felt that she wasn't looking for a mere description of her. Neither could he feel that he could offer her judgement until they knew each other better, in the strange relationship blossoming between them. The best course of action, the draft decides, is to let his sincerity show through.

"One can't make a split judgement Ailith. I, too, hope you can see... um... find... a lot in me as well," words scrambled; but at least he felt he got the meaning through. They saunter on for longer, Argetlam proceeding to his fumble-tongue descriptions of the driving force only created by oneself, and he watches her with his open eyes as the golden mare extends her neck to nip at a leaf or two here and there, and then they amble on in companionable silence. No, Argetlam ambled, back swaying, neck long and relaxed, at ease, and Ailith was small (at least beside him) and carried herself in a courteous way he wasn't sure how to describe.

Her eyes seem to grow a shade cooler, and his heart sinks in his broad gray chest as she speaks, frosty and smooth till the very end, where her voice pauses ever so slightly and she wishes him luck. In my endeavors...? What did endeavors mean? Maybe what he was trying to do. That's what it sounded like anyways. Sweet friend. Argetlam blinks a little doubtfully, and looks up at the skies, mumbling a little of indecipherably words. A moment or two later his voice grows stronger, a little more clear, never quite reaching loud or confident, but getting there. "Thank you. I know war will be hard to stop, if it can be... maybe I could slow it down one day. But so many are torn by war, and affected by it, and hurt by it, even the winning side." Regardless of crimes, none should be made to suffer by any but the judgement of the gods.

Argetlam's eyes widened ever so slightly in surprise as she leaned against his brawny form, and then he relaxed. They were friends, after all, and he felt comfortable beside her, under the heat of the hot sun and after talking about intimate things, things he had never told horses before. It was strange, he reflected, how two could become so close after only twenty minutes of talking. At least, he assumed it had been about twenty minutes, chatting and moving through the forest in idle, meandering ways. His tail flicked up, silver barrette glittering in a flash of sunlight, whisking across her flank as well, a dismal attempt doomed to failure to swat away the flies.

Amicable silence. Birds singing in the heat of Tallsun's day, an occasional flash of a ruby feather or tawny breast, a sapphire wing or black beak as they flitted from tree to tree. Here and there his amber eyes picked up on the flagging tail of a squirrel, sometimes red, sometimes gray, occasionally black, before they scurried about the craggy tree trunks, disappearing. Her heat against his flank, the warmth from her body emitting down to his heart. Argetlam sensed she might have private things to think about, but he also felt that she was comfortable with him, maybe more-so than with any others she had met, an enjoyable fact. He couldn't remember ever actually having a true friend, one he got to really know, in a long time. Isdira, with her snarky comments and crude ways, had teased him about it quite a bit.

The metal-bender felt he needed to give her a gift, a token of his friendship, from the metal surrounding, but it had to be a good gift, a fitting one for the mare. Just as his thoughts began to wander away, she spoke. A long, lengthy couple of sentences, falling just short of a verbal paragraph, with more than just mild praise for him in it, much to his embarrassment. If horses could blush, he would then; in any case, he felt hotter than before, almost as if he might erupt on fire in any moment. Never had he opened up this much, in his quiet mumbling, shambling ways, and never had a horse complimented him this much. Sacrifice. Honor. Much in you. Argetlam dropped his amber eyes as she pulled away to look at him carefully. "Ailith, you don't have to make so much out of it." He muttered shyly after she finished, cheeks burning. Make that whole body, right down to the ends of his dusty mane and dirty fetlocks.

"As for lack of words shared... we'll need to remedy that. Right?" Argetlam smiled inquisitively, butting his head against her left shoulder. Much to his confusion, only moments after she said her judgements were her own. What did she mean by that? I hope you understand that. Argetlam rolled them about in his head, trying to figure it out, examining them carefully, yet he couldn't find decipher them. Giving it up as a lost cause, he continued in companionable silence with Ailith, wondering what else could be brought up. Really he couldn't think of anything to say to her- he hoped she wouldn't be disappointed. She was just... very foreign. Out of here would be a good expression, he thought to himself.

To his evident relief, she picked up on another subject soon. Leader of the herd. Jackal, the King of Thieves, Argetlam knew, but he had been away for some while. In fact, Argetlam had never met him, arriving after the chief had left. "Jackal. They call him the King of Thieves, but maybe he's been stolen. He hasn't been around in a while." The metal-bender frowned slightly, brow furrowing. Where was he, actually? The herd needed him, with Romani and Willow missing. "Our healer, Willow, is missing. Romani was stolen- she's a warrior. My mentor, Aaron, is the mason. Paladin, the former leader and now storyteller, has been scarce. We have no general and we have no head shadow. I guess we're disorganized." They were. Argetlam felt a spike of concern go through him- they needed the general, and the healer, and the storyteller, and the head shadow. They were important for the herd. Not to mention the missing herd leader.