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.