Iftikhar
mare . arabian . chestnut . 15.0hh . 11
She glances toward the breeder as he dares to walk with her, but the sounds of the storm allow her to ignore him— until he speaks. Despite her discomfort Iftikhar stops walking and turns her dished face to view the breeder head-on. There is mockery in his watery gaze and bouncing off his pale tongue. She is tempted to continue to ignore him, but when she faces forward she sees that the way she has chosen is not favorable.
Despite the thicker canopy, water runs and collects mud between the trees. She can imagine the resistance of the thick sludge clinging to her hooves, can almost feel the way the earth will try to hold her feet in place and force her to stand, cold and idle for hours, under the downpour until she is sick and miserable and stuck at the mercy of any passerby, be they horse or predator. She glances again at the mottled breeder and see the direction of his own gaze: he looks up at what she perceives to be an insurmountable rock face.
Iftikhar flicks her wet tail.
The red mare turns her head to eyeball the young breeder, and her pride bends. “Find us shelter,” she says. “Then we may have introductions. Properly, and as befit the customs of this land.” It is begrudging, but her willingness to compromise is clear. Iftikhar is never in the mood for conversation with mutts, and much less tolerant when physically uncomfortable. She shifts her weight, impatient, and prepares to follow the breeder to higher ground. It grates on her that she must rely on anyone, much less a breeder with fouled bloodlines, for anything, but sometimes circumstances do not allow her preferences. Once they are out of the rain and begin to dry she will grant him the honor of her civil presence. It is the most she will do to thank him for a service she cannot deny.
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