He makes to reply to Noise, but the frown and quirk of his smile are stolen away by the mare’s lithe voice. They hang and shift back upon her face. That voice may be fair, but the potency of each word seeks to aim at his heart without shame or fear of having to strike it so plainly. He is forced to recall what ill force inhabits him, and what will of his that pulls him forwards. There is nothing in his eyes that can give way to his thoughts but the mere hesitancy and contemplation of this stall. What may have been said, in either jest or truth has vanished. Instead madness has dared show its face in the fascinating fellow before them.

It is an image gravely seen in past times. Though madness is keen to take on several forms, and has a way of gnawing on the very ends – near ears – of the sane. His companions’ voices are drawn behind as if in a veil, hazy, while his eyes remain on the contorting puppet ahead. It is madness that seeps into his memory and into the stony faces of his friends. Cracking hearts to spill at every seam, or to take hostage noble souls and spite them into wickedness. The giggles that spew into the air seem to toy and chide the stallion, agitate him… perhaps they had won their effect. If not for the steady breath he drew from and dark, steady eyes. The presence is fleeting however odd, it leaves an uncomfortable sting underneath his breast.

Before his gaze can last any longer on the beast he shifts back on the pair. And after the wave of nostalgia passes, Lúthien finds himself gathering his weariness close to him. The mare’s insight is troubling, and briefly wonders if challenging her was indeed the best of decisions he had in mind. It was a bitter response – Lúthien concluded, leaving his head leveled now that he lingers on it. “It is a foolish sort of strength I rely on, miss. The sort that will mean very little, if he should think food or shelter mean less to him in the eyes of perseverance.” How many steps shall he take until he succumbs? It does not worry him, he does not think it; and knows very well, that in the pursuit of something unknown to even himself he will end up dead in this sort of heat. What seemed to be irksome, weather that scorched and forsook the earth, rewarded his mind by telling him he was indeed alive despite all else. Cliché, he realized – a boy’s ideal, a boy who wanted to prove himself – it was all he had. “But I digress by defying you m’lady.” He continues. Making contact and allured by the brightness, perhaps even wonder in her eyes that instinctively make him repel, say chafe against. He takes ownership of the childish response nonetheless, making an effort of quirking his lips into an amused smirk. “And fail to greet the warm welcoming of a fellow stallion.”

Beyond the mesh of thoughts, of suppressed feelings anxious to rip free; a curious idea wanted, desired how such metal could exist on flesh as that. The mere fascination was easily sequestered –as it was - perhaps he could goggle at the stallion some other time… “I am Lúthien Tinúviel, nomad. To what curious world have I fallen prey to, I might ask?”

Tinúviel, with every vowel burns on his tongue. In all rights he should forsake that name, instead he clings on to it, holds it close. It is the only token he has decided to take with him; away from his homeland into the discourse and journey that each step takes. In itself it is a fuel of sorts.

“And your names?” His eyes, they glance between them both. To the neon radiance and upon the molted hues of brown, maintaining this fine line of civility among the refuse.