Iftikhar
mare . arabian . chestnut . 15.0hh . 11
Sounds reach her through the trees— a dull thunk of something heavy colliding with an immovable force, sharp cracks of stone on stone as if the rocks themselves have been picked up by the rush of the wind and clattered into one another. Iftikhar swivels her dished head in sharp, sure movements to track the sounds and notes the progression of it. This it not some random by-blow of the storm. No wind save the breath of the Gods is truly strong enough to lift stones She is not surprised when a horse finally steps through the trees, not until he stands in full view and reveals to her all of his flaws as the rain at her back increases to an annoying pelt.
It is a breeder with a pale gold colt almost like a ‘Teke’s save that it is dull and tarnished with big ugly spots, as if his skin is mottled with a disease he must wear daily. Iftikhar’s dark eyes flick over the young, immature lines of his body and her lip curls as he speaks. This breeder is just a boy, yet the barbaric customs of these lands still allow him to call this territory his own. What a waste.
Iftikhar senses that the storm has not yet reached its full potential despite the intensity with which it rains. Her hair is slicked to her neck and tangles wetly against her hocks, and her forelock sticks to her face despite the quick toss of her head she makes to move it. “The rules of your plebeian culture mean nothing to me,” she informs the breeder as she looks ahead. There must be shelter further inland. If nothing else, perhaps the wind will not be so cold at her back if she is not so close to the shore. She might also find thicker clusters of trees to protect against this infernal rain.
The red mare strides forward with every intent of leaving the pale breeder and the storm behind, ears slicked back and flicking every so often to rid them of rain. Her only goal at this point is to find someplace away from all the rain: the downpour has somehow gotten heavier, and in the distance thunder rolls.
|