Gabbar
stallion . arabian . bay . 14.3hh . 8
His ears twitch when the other male states his name, only mildly surprised to hear it fall from a near-stranger’s lips, and when the slender bay exchanges breaths Gabbar allows himself to relax and enjoy the walk. He considers the Akhal-Teke at his shoulder— Maslakhat. A name to leap off the tongue, nimble as the stallion who bears it; exotic. He wonders what it means. For all that the Arabian has shared space with Akhal-Tekes before, he is always aware of how little he truly knows of the breed’s culture. Breeders —stallions, he reminds himself— in the Arabian herds are all named with the hopes of attracting a mare once they have matured, and are often given lofty or ambitious names. Gabbar’s is a reflection of his mother’s name and means strong or proud, perhaps because his sire sought to impress Iftikhar. Leil —night— stood no chance against the rising influence of Rakkas —dancer— and was cast aside with as little regard as her firstborn. He glances at Maslakhat, wondering what, if any, similarities exist between their peoples.
“News?” Gabbar’s laughs. “The air is hot, the sand is hot, and the wind brings no relief.” Then he sobers, and looks away to consider the dunes in the distance as he says, “I have been keeping my own company for several months. Of the two of us, it is more likely that you have news.” He brings his gaze back to Maslakhat, curious about the goings-on of the Dunes since he stepped aside from the idea of leading a herd. He wants most to hear about Valve but has enough restraint to avoid asking directly. It is possible Gabbar will have to wait until he sees the black mare in the flesh again to learn anything about about her, but he knows even if they exchange no words that laying eyes on her will be enough.
“Breeder,” he hears Iftikhar’s voice suddenly, and reins his mind away from the absent yet tantalizing Akhal-Teke. It reminds him that Iftikhar may have followed him into the territory, and he cranes his neck to look behind him, pausing to peer through the rising heat waves. There is no silhouette on the top of any dunes, no white-legged mare sliding down the steep sandy slopes; no sign at all of any life besides the two stallions.
“Although,” he says companionably as he faces forward and walks on, “I did just meet with Iftikhar.” His dark eyes flick toward Maslakhat to see how this news is received.
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