Iftikhar
mare . arabian . chestnut . 15.0hh . 10
The ocean comes into sight and cools the air, filling each breath with the briny scent of the sea. Iftikhar is not sure she will ever get used to such a smell. It is too wet, she thinks, to heavy in her nose compared to the dry-earth scent of her homeland. She breathes deeply to pull in the full range of scents, many of which are foreign to her, as the stallion responds to her courteous question.
Where he gets the idea that Iftikhar enjoys “blood and glory” mystifies her, and she shoots him a sharp glance— the first unfavorable expression she has shown since she concealed her true opinion of the stallion after his quip about mares earlier in the conversation. However true his statement is, she feels she has not revealed any of her private thoughts to the male either through words or body language during their walk towards the edge of the territory. Maybe he has been watching her. Maybe he was in the Commons the first day she arrived and witnessed her obvious enjoyment of the explosive collision between two other breeders. Iftikhar cannot think when else she has indicated in any degree that violence is something she finds favorable in a horse. She does not like the thought of anyone watching her unseen, skulking about like some of those ‘Tekes— who was that one, the dapple gray with the leer...?
The blood-red mare flicks her flagged tail, dismissing the thought. Her pace is still as smooth as when they started their walk away from the others, and although Iftikhar has shortened her stride to accommodate the male’s pace in a gesture of respect (however insincere it was) her movements are still fluid. Her tone and body language has been primarily neutral once they split from the other horses, and she does not drop that façade even now as she prepares to part ways with the short stallion. There is no reason to give the breeder a reason to think unfavorably of her. True, she was less than polite when they first met, and has yet to grace the breeder with her name, but Iftikhar has done what she can during their brief jaunt to the shoreline to salvage whatever first impression she may have given him by being courteous and, to a degree, submissive.
Iftikhar walks to the ocean and stops before it can kiss her hooves. She turns her dished head to regard the grullo breeder with her dark eyes, careful to hide her disdain for a stallion acting as leader behind a thick lens of gratitude. “It was kind of you to lead me to the ocean,” she says without actually saying the words “thank you.” Breeders do not exist to be thanked; mares do. “Bring my regards back to Kaywunaywun.” A command, but one that is issued in the form of a request. Even now Iftikhar is careful, careful to cloak her true intentions from the short stallion. She turns away and faces the ocean again, then plunges into the water to give herself a strong start as she kicks her legs beneath the waves and swims away from the Inlet.
If taking a land is as simple as setting hoof to it and calling it yours, Iftikhar has no wish to tempt whatever other powers the stallion on these Isles might wield— not yet. Not yet.
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