Iftikhar
mare . arabian . chestnut . 15.0hh . 10
Iftikhar snorts derisively. Handsome. The breeder is vain, and though she desires to know how he achieved such power over the islands, the Arabian does not like his company. She strides through the grass and lifts her blazed face a notch higher. The horizon shows her unfamiliar terrain —she is not used to the earth acting as a visual obstacle, hemming her in on all sides and minimizing how far into the distance she can see— and she wonders how much longer she will be forced to tolerate this breeder’s presence.
His next words bring Iftikhar to an immediate halt. She stares down at the stallion and flattens her ears, and her voice is tight when she demands, “Are all breeders considered kings on these Isles?” Impossible. His quip about mares being inconvenient sends fury through her body, a fierce cold that chills her as quickly and thoroughly as plunging into the ocean to get here had. She nurses her rage but lifts her ears, dropping her muzzle to arch her fine neck as she flicks and then flags her tail.
When Iftikhar steps forward again, it is with shorter strides that accommodate the tiny breeder’s natural gait— and she hangs back, just enough so that the stallion is now clearly in the lead. “I am sure you have noticed —you are an astute stallion— that I am not from these Isles,” she says, and her voice has lost its edge. “This culture... It is so new to me. Lütfen, Dögun,” and the clear, unthreatening way Iftikhar says his name would set any stallion from the desert on edge, “explain to me how herds work in these lands. Your mare, the blue— Kaywunaywun? Yes. She seems like a fine lead mare— there are lead mares in these lands, aren’t there?” The Arabian laughs lightly at her ignorance and points one ear toward the breeder. She trains her near eye on him, and her gaze is steady, lacking expression.
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