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the path to enlightenment is paved with ignorance "Lift the veil from your eyes, basran. I am here." A deep voice rumbles from below; tucked firmly against the base of the dune, Arishok had been napping through the worst of the day's heat. His ashen hide is littered with crystalline granules of sand; the crimson shield of his chest heaves with exertion as he ascends the dune in a handful of powerful strides. Overhead, alhaad's eye glares relentlessly down upon the masculine pair; his gaze has not traveled far since Arishok had retired. In an apparent mimicry, Arishok's baleful glare settles on the one who had disturbed his rest and invaded his kingdom. "Know that you are in the lands of the talsaad uninvited. We are not a people who take kindly to being invaded, basran. Would you seek to wrest from me the home that has claimed me, or to take from me those who share my path?" Arishok's great muscles have tensed as he speaks, throwing into greater prominence the faded battle scars that blemish his ivory pelt. In the past he has treated the nomadic creatures who share this desert leniently, allowing them passage without harassment. But this particular male makes him uneasy; by all appearances he is a worthy rival, standing only a fraction shorter than Arishok and with the same toned and powerful build. For all that he appears younger and less experienced, the warlander knows better than to presume the weaknesses of a potential enemy, though outwardly he exudes nothing but confidence and authority as he steps closer still - hovering just outside the immediate range of the ebon stallion's hooves as he allows the hostility to mold his rigid muscles and limbs into a hostile pose. The bloodlust pulses through him at their close proximity; the very blood in his veins seems to borrow of the desert's heat until only Arishok's eternal patience keeps him in check. Even this adamant thread can not be expected to hold for long, however; already it is beginning to fray as the faint sound of Havande's pulse reaches his crimson-tipped ears. It has been too long since the stallion has known glorious battle; the ashqaad were generally submissive creatures, and weak-willed when they did engage in warfare. Arishok lamented the lack of worthy opponents in this land, and looked forward to conquering someone who might actually come close to matching his own strength. "Leave, vashedan. Now." He hisses through his clenched teeth, straining closer still as his smoldering gaze burns into Havande's eyes. a bloodstained gray stallion standing proud at 16.2 hands and following the ways of his warlander ancestors for nine years and counting |