Gabbar
stallion . arabian . bay . 14.3hh . 6
Valve arrives like a flash of black lightning and her assault brings the white-faced breeder to his knees. Gabbar shouts encouragement and dances lightly on his feet as he anticipates leaping in to aid the Akhal-Teke, but it appears the brief battle has been won and soon the Dunes are empty except for the three purebreds. The sands have been cleansed. The bay stallion turns away from the river and pauses to level his dark, steady gaze at his ally. “I was hoping for a challenge,” he says, and his deep voice lingers in the oddly-still air. Dust is still settling from all the commotion and he can taste it on his tongue. “I am honored to have fought beside such a capable ally. Please, stay and rest yourself for as long as you like.” He dips his dark nose in a respectful nod before his attention shifts to the chestnut Arabian.
She is the one mare he did not permit the impure breeders to take with them when they fled, and he draws in a deep breath as he looks toward her. The motion makes his bruised breast twinge but Gabbar feels loose and energetic and is not at all bothered by the dull ache in his chest or the sharp, stinging pain that must surely be a welt on his stifle by now. No, he is heady with victory, and it shows in the high carriage of his refined head and the lift of his still-flagged tail. At this distance —maybe three horse lengths away— Gabbar can see that the Arabian mare has a modest amount of white speckling her chestnut coat in various places: under her jaw, her underbelly and loins, and a more generous splash of the color at the base of her tail. She is not Iftikhar, but she is a stunning individual all the same, and the bay stallion exhales a low snort of appreciation.
While it is entirely improper for a breeder to approach a mare without invitation, Gabbar finds it is necessary now and hopes she will understand his actions are not meant to be offensive. He needs information. She is not a mare of the herd he travels with, and thus he justifies stepping over his bounds as a breeder to converse with her. Gabbar strides forward until the gap between them is closer to one horse length, though he is still far enough away that neither Arabian can touch the other. It is up to the mare if she chooses to come closer.
“Bayan,” he greets her with a courteous dip of his head, his gaze averted. “I must beg your pardon for speaking out of turn. My name is Gabbar, son of Leil. I would not offend you with my presence if the matter was not one of utmost urgency. Unfortunately this cannot wait upon formality.” His dark eyes shift to hers briefly to gauge how receptive she is of his presence. Many mares from the desert are quick to strike with hoof or tooth at any breeders who come too close. It is an instinctive reaction: in their ancient history, rape was rampant in the culture and mares not afforded the respect they were due as individuals. The present-day culture —one where mares are the dominant sex and ultimate authority among the herd— is a prime example of how resisting repeating history can go too far and the opposite sort of oppression becomes normal.
Gabbar is vaguely aware of this bigger picture, but he has little interest in history that does not involve wars and warriors and he is content with his lot in life. His one ambition is to achieve the rank of Consort, but it is an ambition shared by all breeders in the desert and he has no chance of making a name for himself while he is so far away. Gabbar may as well have ceased existing in the minds of the mares of the herd the moment he set hoof outside of the desert.
However, his immediate concern is the pretty mare in front of him and whether or not she intends to strike out at him for daring to speak out of turn. Gabbar stands tall despite the potential threat to his body (one he takes much more seriously than any damage he anticipated during his fight with Olaf) and speaks again in a steady voice: “Do I have your permission to proceed?”
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