Weir liked a great many things, and one of them, was walks. They were so, leisurely. He need only keep up with himself, so as is his fashion, he goes about setting a slow pace.
Today he canvases the Meadow. A sort of gathering place here in the lands of Beqanna, horses of all sorts come here to chatter. Weir, he comes to listen, to observe. He dips his chestnut dial in passing, locks a deep russet spilling across his face each time. The weather is polite today. A cool breeze sifts through the stagnant summer air, Weir welcomes it's presence, for gnats did not like the wind.
This day his amber pools fall upon two gentleman engaged in friendly banter. This is however not what wholely entices Weir to intrude, one of them is very interesting. The roan slowly invades the conversation, a smile upon his maw, he seems every bit a pleasant old fellow. He peers closely at the young boy, doing nothing to hide the fact. "Remarkable, my dear boy, you are.." he pauses taking a long inhale,scenting the colt, "entirely plastic. Is it not?" Weir pulls his crown and neck back, looking expectantly at the child.
He does though seem to recall his manners, however delayed. "Oh right right, terribly sorry, I am Weir from the Dale."He does his best to save face, though he retains an inquisitive look in his eye.
