Işıksız steps back in triumph, blowing hard, breath clouding over his face in the crisp morning air of the Peak. He stands between the tobiano and his prize, legs straight, one ear pointed toward the mare daubed in black and the other angled at the unfortunate soul who caught his eye primarily on the fact that she appeared to be standing alone. It feels good to be breathing air that doesn't sting his nose and he draws in another inhale, savoring the fresh greenery underlying the tang of sweat and roughed-up dirt. Good, black, dirt. Healthy soil meant to support.

His gaze never leaves Clarity as he tips his muzzle toward the mare he will collect. "You belong to Marceline, now," he informs her, intent on the tobiano's reaction to this news. The spotted queen said she desired her name to be known by every living beast across these isles. A coronation gift, he thinks, and barely remembers to suppress a snort. He has not been off Salem long enough for his sinuses to heal. He won't embarrass himself by bleeding in front of his opponent without additional effort on her part.

He can feel the spreading ache of more than one bruise from their savage encounter, and his flesh stings in a number of places from her teeth. At least one scrape on his cannon bleeds a hot bead. He backs a step, still staring down the warrior lest she catch her breath and make another valiant attempt to keep the Arabian here for herself. "You look lonely, little dove," Işıksız coos. "This rock is barren. I'll keep a bed warm for you in the Hills," he adds, his voice balanced between invitation and threat.