Iftikhar
mare . arabian . chestnut . 15.0hh . 11
The breeder has an inexhaustible amount of energy. The rain doesn’t slow him down at all, while Iftikhar feels heavier and more irate with every step. When they reach the cliff face she expects him to locate the start of a switchback and lead her up the rocky slope, but instead he leads her to what looks like a narrow crack in the wall. “Lady,” he says to her, and she flicks her ears back, uncertain as to whether or not he is mocking her. Discomfort outweighs all other feelings, however, and she steps inside immediately to find the entrance veers and widens suddenly in a larger area, dark and dry.
She shakes out her coat, mane, and tail and stands with her hindquarters facing the entrance, one hind hoof cocked as she feels water drip off her body. As she dries she knows she will begin to itch. Iftikhar hates being wet. She twists one ear to catch the sounds of the breeder’s entrance, his hooves clattering on the stone floor of their shared refuge. He speaks, and she hears him use the wall of the cave like a tree trunk to itch himself. The red mare turns her head and sees him staring out into the rain.
“I am Iftikhar,” she says, and grits her teeth for a moment before forcing a civil “Thank you,” out into the air. How her High Seer would mock her now, relying on the aid of a breeder with soiled bloodlines. How low you have sunk. She turns her head to face the dark interior again and shifts her weight. “I am not used to rain like this,” she says. “I come from a desert far from here. Things are... different, where I am from.” Iftikhar turns her head again, then moves her whole body to face the breeder and the entrance. She listens to the torrent of water pouring over the earth and slicks her ears back, pressing her hooves against the hard ground and wishing ardently to feel hot sand against her feet, dry air in her nose, with only the wind rasping over the desert to disturb her peace.
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