Her ears swivel to catch the cricket songs, her gaze unfocused on the horizon where Ak Burun faded from view, until the sound of someone’s unhurried approach draws the attention of each of her senses. Shararat turns her head to bring the other horse into view: a stallion, desert-bred, bearing the flag of her people in his tail. Her response to his presence is automatic as she arches her neck and snaps her own tail into a banner, her curves trimmed in silver, eyes wide and liquid-dark.
"I know no Khonsu," she tells him, a faint accent sharpening her consonants as vowels linger in her throat. There is no scorpion sting in her words, only the warm invitation of a woman to a man as she crosses what little distance is between them with even, measured steps. "Only Uzay, and he does not give. Only takes. The light from Iç and the souls of the fallen. His eyes are midnight sky, an endless void, and not at all the gaze I want on me." Yours, though, is the unspoken implication as she looks up at him from under thick lashes.
This stallion, too, is glazed in moonlight, his powerful haunches emphasized in the glow, every flex of his muscles radiant in the dark. A thin strip of white lies between his eyes, the faintest hint of freckling across his cheeks: blood-flecked from a battle before his birth. Three of his feet look like he walked through blood after his victory, and the white stippling the back of his barrel toward the groin remind her of claw-swipes. The black mare smiles as her eyes return to his. "Did you fight a wildcat in the womb, savaşçı, and now wear its blood on your coat?" she asks. "Uncommon marks of valor, and yet, I would think they must be well-deserved." The Mare with Two Wombs does not gift her sons with such markings unless they are notable indeed. Shararat’s smile grows a fraction wider. How fortuitous for her to have been found so quickly by one so worthy. |