Gabbar
stallion . arabian . bay . 14.3hh . 6
Gabbar has been full of worry.
Worry for A’idah, whom he has not seen hide nor hair of since he fled her presence some time ago. He does not know if his cowardly departure has any correlation with her absence, and he does not know if not knowing worries him more than concern for her welfare. She is an Arabian mare, yes, but she is not like the warriors from his home. He would give no second thought to one of those mares going about their own business, but he cares for the pale chestnut. She is softly feminine, a refreshing change from the mares he grew up with, and he hates to think she may be in some danger or distress due to his actions.
He worries, too, about Iftikhar. The red mare has not returned and while she has instructed him to stay put, his own conscience will not allow it any longer. Rakkas has occupied much of his sleeping consciousness, and Gabbar is very tired of imagining the various ways in which he will be punished for returning home so late. It does not make for restful sleep.
And then there is Valve.
Gabbar follows her across the Dunes, mulling over his own problems as he follows the mare a fair distance away. He wishes to speak with her, to ask a favor, one he does not think she will hold over him should she ever require a service. The Akhal-Teke warrior must know, surely, that Gabbar’s loyalty lies more directly with hers than with the two mares he has been sent to the Isles of the Lost to fetch.
Like a cur, he abuses himself snidely. No better than a dog, obedient to the last.
Valve stops on a cliff, and Gabbar is abashed to realize he knows little about this side of his territory. He has not ranged far in his time here— or, rather, he has not realized just how vast these Dunes truly are. The slender mare’s silhouette almost masks the horse who stands ahead of her, but as the bay breeder advances he sees the pale spotted rump of someone he does not recognize. It almost sparks a memory— something about the half-breeds, some bit of information heard in passing but barely retained that is relevant to the coloring of the stranger before him, but even as Gabbar grasps after the knowledge it fades away into unremembrance.
He tosses his dished head and snorts as he comes to a stop one pace behind Valve’s left shoulder. Her voice is level as she addresses the stranger. Gabbar sees no reason to bolster or weaken her words with his own at this time and holds his tongue.
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