It is a cold, wet summer's day, drizzling slightly, the clouds a little frayed and a miserable gray; it's hardly more than a mist, the rain is, but over time is sinks into your bones and sets your head low, your eyes forlorn and your mouth frowning in despair. It is a very humid damn freezing cold, Argetlam muses to himself, sodden tail flicking across his flanks. On top of that, the flies drone steadily on, not crawling back to wherever they appeared from. Insects! They seem to have come from nowhere, exploding into being and never leaving one's face alone. What a miserable day it was.

The horse in the sparse trees of the meadow on the narrow strip of land between the Threshold and the Foothills looks quite a damp sight, by any means. A dark gray coat, dappled and ringed with brilliant white and legs blackened to a sooty ink, turned wholly black from the wet. For now the rain begins to fall heavier, graying out the world into a drab palette of colors. His mane, dusty and dirty, as well as his tail, is in for a washing, which is perhaps a good thing. Before, it had matted and congealed into a stiff sort of texture a bit like cardboard and straw; now it was dark wet silver-gold and, while sopping wet, clean at the very least.

It feels funny to be so clean after many months of dust and dirt layering upon the normally somewhat filthy stallion, Argetlam finds, and despite his... wetness, he certainly looks more attractive with the layer of collective... debris gone. Well-muscled, sturdy, tall; handsome in a rugged way. He would look a fine warrior, if he had the mind for it. But however hard they tried to bend him to become a fighter, he never stood for it. Luckily for him, most horses seemed to bounce off his considerable bulk anyways, and he suffered minimal damage.

Nevertheless, his refusal to fight and instead craft horseshoes, metal barrettes and pretty metal jewelry had sent him away from home.

OOC: Set in the thin line between Threshold and Foothills; a meadow littered with boulders and rocks, and small hills, a very diverse terrain. One or two trees; Argetlam is sheltered under one of the largest rock mini-drops with a tree overhanging it.

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He heard hoofbeats, hardly distinguishable from the steady patter of rain hitting moistening earth. Thump-thump-thump. An erratic, quieter sound of paws accompanied the hoof-beats. Argetlam lifted his head uneasily, trying to see through the thick veils of rain, water trickling into his eyes and down his wet, clammy hide. It took a little longer for his eyes to make out the vague shadow than hear the clip-clop of hooves, yet without the sharper sound that came with horseshoes. The stallion glanced at his own feet, silver-rimmed, and felt distinctly the horseshoes should be remodeled soon as his feet were growing out fairly quick. Generally, the rockiness of the Foothills kept them nice and short, but horseshoes sometimes constricted growth nevertheless.

The figure was short, broad-chested, barrel-shaped, stocky and stoic, with a massive disfiguration down one side of his face- a huge black charred mess, a terrible burn. Argetlam blinked uncertainly, instinctively taking note of the dun's pinned ears and war-like way of moving, the brash bold direct route any warrior moved in, as far as he was concerned. At the horse's feet, there was a dog, accompanied by the internationally acknowledged wet-dog scent, who stared at him as well.

Uneasy but unwilling to give up his small shelter from the storm, and distinctly unsettled by the stallion's tight-lipped face, Argetlam finally ended up calling out. "Do you want to get out of the rain? Here, there's some space," The metal-bender shuffled over a touch, hooves scraping the near-mud consistency of the dirt, wary of the stallion who simply stared at him. Nares flared; but the crafter could not detect any scent but wild-scent, outcast-scent. Who was this warlike stallion? How did he get a dog to obey him?

He felt judged. The stallion's eyes were hard, cold blue, and they stared into his amber, sharp and cruel, trying to decipher what secrets were laid out on the table. Persecuted, Argetlam amended, not judged. As if this stallion was trying to test him, see his willingness to rise to a challenge, to fight. Argetlam was no fighter; he dropped his gaze hastily, ears twitching back, head lowering slightly, feeling bizarrely cowed by the strange moment when eye contact was made.

Without a word, the yellow stallion moved into the space made by Argetlam, taking cover from the stubborn rain that kept falling, wet and cold, coming down quicker and quicker. Wet rain, cold rain, that soaks his sooty mane and tail, tangles it and knots it into stubborn knobs of hair that look little more than... lumps, really. Raindrops twist and drip on his face, down his forelock, until he shakes his head firmly, dislodging it stubbornly. He couldn't remember washing away the dirt from his brawny silver form in a long time, cleaning it of debris and dust. Why, he wondered. Why was that? Oh yes. Never had he really felt the urge to. But pressed nearly against the dun, he felt miserably that he should've taken some time to clean up, just a touch.

Interrupting the pitter-patter of falling drops, comes a harsh, blunt voice that awakens him quickly. "Foothills," Argetlam says easily, yet growing more uncomfortable by the minute beside the stallion who smells of wild-scent. Who was this stallion?