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.