Gabbar
stallion . arabian . bay . 14.3hh . 6
The pale chestnut mare from the Dunes, the one with white speckled under her jaw and at her loins, the pretty Arabian he had prevented the ugly Breeder from keeping captive any longer (because surely a mare as finely-blooded as she had not been among the herd of mutts willingly), had said she met the High Seer El Halin in the Falls. Gabbar wanders through the territory now and turns his dished head atop his arched neck as he scans the mingling horses with his dark eyes. He does not see the dappled gray mare with the bloodmarked shoulders. He does not see the bright chestnut coat of his mother.
He sees filth of all colors and all sizes. He hears them laughing with one another over the murmur of their conversations and he wonders how anyone could be happy when they carry such impure bloodlines. They are ugly, these horses on the Isles, and tall. Some are thick, stocky. Gabbar doesn’t see any Akhal-Tekes or Arabians, and no other breed deserves recognition. The bay stallion flicks his black tail and pauses to turn and survey a new area. There are smaller horses here, foals and the like— the offspring of mutts with bloodlines so diluted and thinned that it seems a blasphemy that any of them might survive. Gabbar snorts.
He turns his mind to the task he was given by Iftikhar’s Consort. Gabbar has not dwelled on it since arriving on the Isles, distracted as he was by the battle in the Dunes and then gathering information from the pretty Arabian. Now he allows himself to wonder what he’s supposed to do when he does find the two mares. Rakkas, Uzay take you, this is not a task for a Breeder— neither mare will have any reason to listen to me, much less follow me home. He lays his ears back and steps to one side, right in the path of a young horse passing on his left. “Dikkat etsene!” he snaps, and follows it up with a rebuking bite aimed at the yearling’s pale neck. This one has spots, too, he notices, and wonders if every mutt on these Isles carries the pattern.
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