Iftikhar
mare . arabian . chestnut . 15.0hh . 10
There may be a name for the island Iftikhar strides across now, but it is not specifically known to her. The breeder had rattled off a list of titles for the individual isles but had not explained the climate of each before she left the Crossing. The chestnut Arabian can tell that this island does not contain a desert: it is far too cold and vegetation grows as rampantly here as it did on the first island. “Salak,” she spits, and stops to eyeball the tall, spiny-looking trees that are scattered loosely around her. The smell that accompanies them is sweet and sharply pungent. It is not unpleasant. She decides she will stay for a bit to explore: she may as well study these strange lands in her search for El Halin and the familiar climate of a desert.
The grass here is as tall as the white stockings on her four legs, and she parts it with impatient hooves as she moves forward again. Her red tail is a heavy wet weight behind her and her coat still sheds water from her earlier swim with every step. The air here is brisk, but as long as the Arabian keeps in motion she is not bothered by the morning’s chill. She snaps her tail and flags it as she quickens her stride to a trot with the intent to dry it faster that way and lifts her dished nose to the wind. She smells water, fresh, not briny like the ocean, and follows the scent.
Iftikhar reaches a shallow pond in good time and lets her tail fall. The wet strands tickle her hocks as she stops at the edge of the water and dips her head to drink. Other horses live in this land: she can smell them, but they are of no concern to her. There is one scent she is searching for on these Isles, and it belongs to her High Seer— who does not seem to be on this part of the island. The chestnut lifts her white-blazed head to stare across the pond and water drips from the whiskers on her chin to disturb the surface of the water at her feet. She will feed, she decides, and then be on her way to explore the rest of the island thoroughly. If the flea-bitten gray mare is lurking somewhere on this island, Iftikhar will ferret her out.
But not until after a midmorning snack. She turns away from the pond, lowering her head to graze, and is soon absorbed in the foreign flavors of the grass.
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