Metal clasps the body, attaches perhaps seamlessly into the connecting tissue. A sound follows the beast as he approaches, a low thrum, the stranger’s suave steps furrowing Lúthien’s brow. The expression itself is not very pronounced; the traveler does not want to offend the creature but regards him with utmost curiosity. The hallucination is at least false, or by the gods, he may already be mad. The voice is both a mild relief that fills the air, all of it really, with a deep brass voice.

“… hanging?” He surprises himself, the answer is unrefined as he twitches his head just barely above its previous disposition. Beyond the orbs that fester into the beast’s skin the greeting is an odd one – and it makes him smirk, a smile really that cracks against his grey skin. “I should hope-,” it’s odd to hear his voice finally reach the air. But he doesn’t mind the change even if its once fluid, heavy presence is now harsh along its ends. He can be certain that it gives none of his weaknesses away, and by those graces alone, the stallion preserves what dignity remains by his side. “- that I have not been hung. Unless I find myself dead already.” The stallion’s tone is one that seeks to jest with the peculiar fellow, the only rancid remark that stings is the one he’s made for himself. Death; how it lives to love and destroy.

He lifts his eyes up, waiting for the stallion’s rebuttal; ignoring the pressing matters of rehydration, or that of food and shelter. There’s a bitter thought that travels against his spine and spits coolly into his ears; we’ve got all the time in the world Lúthien. It breaks his mood and makes his previous actions echo out before him without the chance to recapture them. Lúthien’s expression fades just at the arrival of another; a spirit practically, or it should have seemed. Finding no bounds to the earth for freedom inclined to follow each step she took. Before he could react she had already made her greeting, had settled her eyes against him with some preconceived intention and approached. Those eyes were strong, made his muscles flinch but not enough to make him move; they merely solidified in his stance, as he watched her carefully near.

What she says drives a soft snort beyond his nares. Lúthien’s eyes briefly close while his head gingerly moves away from the mare’s lips.

“A face as handsome as I? Aye, one such face that is slick with salt and the vapor of his breath, dust and grime.” From his side an eye accuses her of something. “What, if I shall dare ask, is this definition of handsome you see?” There is more beyond this surface he plays, that he is holding on to and testing in the presence of these living souls. But despite all the efforts he has made in a month he still feels. And it is not enough that he should feel every ache and whine of these muscles that bind him together into a cage, no. The soul is weak beyond its walls, and it curses him. Beyond the innards he is attached to his melancholy, although openly challenges the bay mare to test her conviction- whatever it may be –. Perhaps for the time being he is also curious by the nature of her invitation. This unspoken greeting that amuses him, and has not taken the shape or form of irritation. For what it costs him the black crown levels, pointing out on the horizon with the challenge of his thin smile.

Yelling splits into his ears, where his eyes behold the enraged picture of a mad man. Or otherwise thoroughly disturbed. The dark stallion fights with an unseen foe and possesses the recoil of an agitated snake. Lúthien’s eyes narrow, glances among the other two before he wills his body ahead; enough that beyond what distance there is between them and the lone stallion, he is at the forefront, however remaining close to the pair he just recently met. Lúthien angles his head away from the stranger, allowing his eyes to graze over. There was no need to intervene, so long as no attack was made; but Lúthien remained patient, curious as to what the others would do but more specifically, what he would do. Words did not spew from his mouth, no, he didn’t want them to; he wanted to see if the stallion would heed the message in his body that would have clearly said; I want no trouble from you. Leaving the hissing snake to coil about them would only encourage the chance it might attack, or perhaps its very intention was such, and an attack would be inevitable.