Kiraz
The voice makes its way into her insubstantial dreams, but the stranger’s touch is what eventually pulls her back to wakefulness. It takes her a second to register fully that she is being touched by an unknown, potentially dangerous individual, and at first she simply groans again at the nudging lips against her neck. It feels nice. It feels innocent. She only begins to realize the weight of her situation when the stranger tugs - still gently - at her coarse copper mane.
She wakes up fully, the world swimming slowly into view as her aching eyes flutter open. The realization that someone is touching her now fully registers, and her eyes roll back toward the stallion as she gives a single, desperate thrash in the sand. She regrets this immediately, for it drives a hot nail of pain through her skull, and she squeals as her eyes slam shut once again of their own accord. The pain slowly fades, and Kiraz - whimpering somewhat pitifully - opens her eyes slowly. As nervous as it makes her, she is at the mercy of this stranger. As she eyes him above her, she tries to make light of the situation, thinking that if he wanted to hurt her, he would have certainly done so by now. The memory of his ‘hello’ comes back to her, and she feels somewhat guilty for her extreme response to his touch. Realistically, she could have befallen much worse fates than being gently prodded back to consciousness.
”I’m sorry, you startled me,” she says, rolling slowly to gather her legs beneath her. This movement makes her head ache, but it is not nearly as agonizing as the sudden movement had been. ”Who are you? Where am I?” she asks. Her tone holds cautious curiosity, but it is not accusatory as she stands slowly on spindly, unsteady legs. She looks up at the stranger again in front of her, shocked to find that what she thought was an illusion of height is not an illusion at all. From the ground, everyone towers, and she had assumed she would be able to look the patchwork stallion in the eye when she stood up - but she cannot. She has to crane her slender neck to meet his mismatched gaze, and she is acutely aware of her vulnerability. At the same time, however, she feels relief; at least with this monolith of a stallion in her company, no one else would try to bother her.
She clears her throat quietly, wincing at the soreness and the dryness of it. ”Um, my name is Kiraz,” she says, somewhat uncertainly, as though it were an afterthought. ”Thank you for waking me.”