His arrival was not heralded with the flight of crows cawing into the air, nor did the earth darken in his wake. For all intent and purpose, the ebon man was surprisingly lackluster and average; he was no hulking behemoth, nor elegant dancer. He moved with the weary stride of one who had traveled long and bore heavy burdens, with his crowned head low and his thick neck flecked with sweat as he moved through the heat of midday. He was seemingly innocuous, another weary, normal, traveler out during the peak of the sun's reign.

   To believe that was foolish.

   It was true that he was weary, but he was in no way average nor so beat-down as his posture would suggest. Perhaps it would be a wise warning if the world harkened his passing, for with the hatred simmering in his heart and the calloused intellect behind his haunting eyes he was one whom should be trusted less than the serpent laying in the pathway. It was merely suiting that he bore the guise of a traveler worn thin by the hard world, it was far less conspicuous than charging in screaming his fury and wrath to the heavens above, demanding retribution for the sins wrought upon him. It was also necessary for the man he wished to become in this new land, for his old name, while unknown, might reveal all too readily his purpose and nature to those well-versed in ancient histories and cultures long forgotten. So as he walked, the Pretender mulled over various names he hoarded like precious coins within his mind, each name bearing a different personality, different physical traits that he could no longer access, but could very well use the mannerisms included with them.

   He did not choose to dwell upon the past once his choice was made, but in the silence and solitude of his walk there was little else for his ever-active mind to indulge in. He did not want to remember the choking, dead air of his tomb, of bursting from the soil screaming in pain and terror. He did not want to remember the stone behemoth that drove him from the place of his rebirth, and eventually from the land therein.

   Yet his thoughts would not be denied.

   Bitter air, so dry and stale it may have very well been dust in his lungs, tickling with a feather-light touch that left him coughing upon his first inhale. Darkness so deep that he feared he had gone blind, that not even closing his eyes changed the shapeless blackness surrounding him with it's oppressive presence. He reeled in confusion, struggling to breathe, to understand what was going on.

   And then earth began to fall-No. He balked at the memory, at the taste of fear and terror still fresh upon his tongue and heart even after months away from his prison. It was not enough time from his re-emergence into the world to dull the razor blade edge of that memory, nor the ones following in it's wake. With an iron will forged by a childhood of political and cutthroat lessons, Ammon wrestled his mind to submission to bask in the stillness as the trauma once more sank into the depths of his mind, a leviathan that would emerge again but for now allowed him victory. Ammon's gaze finally lifted to look upon his surroundings, upon the flat plains of gently swaying grass and sweet-smelling air. He was not so hardened that he could not appreciate the beauty of the land, and his confinement had granted him a sense of appreciation he had lacked before. One never knew how precious the world was until it was almost taken away.

   It was rare for the onyx stallion to be caught unawares, so when he heard the soft rustle of grasses parting and the crunch of soil under hoof, he flicked back an ear, the only sign acknowledging the presence of another. Yet his heartbeat sped, irrational terror arising in his breast. What if it was him, the beast from hell that plagued him like no other, that burned him with just a glance and made the beat of his heart shift and contract in agony? Swallowing his fear, the secret-keeper turned his proud skull, laying unsettling eyes upon his new company, relief surging through him as his terror was set aside. This was not the one he feared, simply another. Such emotion did not show upon his features, his face carved of onyx for all the expression it bore.

   "Thou tread the earth with heavy hooves, thus thou do not seek to unsettle one such as me. Perchance can I be of service to thee?"

   The behemoth that had nearly bowled over the much smaller black stag was truly monsterous; teeth-like protrusions jutted from his chest in a seam, tightly closed yet the wrinkles of skin around them bore sign that they were not static as they appeared to be. His stature was massive, towering far over Ammon's form, and while robust and well-groomed, there were signs of wear and travel evident; burrs clung to dirty and dusty fetlocks, weariness sagged the skin beneath the stallion's eyes. They were signs the raven himself mirrored, although his were fallacies to wear as the foundation of a new persona, the white stud before him for all Ammon could see bore them true. "Thou art forgiven." He replied, although his features remained obscurely empty, his words carried weight and weariness, to match his posture and guise.

   However, the stallion's question hit upon a nerve pulsating and raw within Ammon, and one of those silky-black ears pinned back against his thick mane, grief surging up his throat and catching him by surprise. Of course, the black stag did not let slip to the other man precisely what his words did to him, that such an innocuous question caused his breath to catch in his throat and his knees to weaken. It hurt, truly a hurt he felt only once before, to be faced with so blunt a reminder of his own antiquity, that he was as foreign to the world as it was to him. "Aye, t'was the dialect of mine culture to speak thus. This land bears a strange tongue, I know it not." He spoke honestly, for that was hardly a secret, and not one Ammon could veil as his own voice betrayed him. He mocked himself for it, although the mammoth stud's words drew his attention, and the secret-keeper's mind smirked in amusement. Did he truly think the raven would fall for such a pathetic attempt at deceit? The land around them was vast, flat and open, a myriad of endless pathways one might take and avoid another, yet the brute had almost barreled right over Ammon, and claimed he did not seek the black stag out?

   "Queer, that. Perchance Fate sought to entwine our threads for this day." He inclined his head, finally turning to face the larger stallion fully. "Mine name is Vasher Narvisson, rogue errant and weary walker. What of thee, what name might I call to thine visage?" Finally a sign of emotion, a crinkle at the corner of white eyes as if in amusement, a sentiment not wholly an act. Yet whilst 'Vasher' meant it in camaraderie, Ammon mocked the brute's lie. "And mayhap since thou art wandering these plains same as I, we shalt travel as one. Where about lies thine destination?" He questioned, his pinned back ear flicking forward once more, his ebon features yet unchanged save the wrinkle about the edges of his eyes, his posture however did shift; hoof cocked and his weight shifted, taking on a far more restful, lax posture than the alert stiffness he had held prior, all to keep the larger stud at ease.

   Despite his lesser use of emotion, of inflection in his tone, 'Vasher' was a friendlier Face than Ammon was by nature, and it made him feel rather rusty in using it... but it was the only Face which would not require magic he was now lacking. Vasher had been a boy lost long ago, a broken mother's whispered hope to her black-borne son 'fore he was taken away. It was a Face he sparingly used, for to use it felt too much like an admittance that he was not who he was, that he disliked what he was.

   Ammon flicked an ear at the stallion's own name, a soft snort escaping him as the massive stallion butchered his new name. "Vash-ehr. Thou art close, however, thou drew out the 'e' too far." He corrected, mulling over before making a subtle chewing motion. "I have no place you call home, Tor." He mimicked the stallion's cadence, though his lip curled slightly. "And thine speech is like curdled milk to the tongue." It lacked eloquence, it was a rough-hewn axe compared to a slender rapier, and another reminder that he was as archaic as his words.

   He moved to follow Tor, though when he glanced to the stallion there was something.... off, a flash of red on his head that drew his eyes before Tor turned away. It snared his interest, but he bid his time as there was no way to see what that had been without making a fool of himself. He was silent as Tor described the mare of his interest, spoke not on it as he truly held no interest for it, though at the direct question he flicked an ear, mulling over his words carefully. "I awoke here." It was the plain and earnest truth, though he would not say quite how long he had been asleep. "Thou hath not seen me wander 'ere these lands as I've not wandered them but a day." He chuckled low.

   "What of thee, Tor, where doth thou call home, for thou doth not smell of this plain but of baked soil and spice." He arched a brow, ghoulish eyes focused on the larger stallion.