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.