Gabbar
stallion . arabian . bay . 14.3hh . 6
She’s young, very young, and doesn’t carry herself with that air of entitlement characteristic of Arabian fillies. Her first response is stammered and he shifts his gaze away from her, ears pushing sideways as his muscles loosen to show he means no harm. Gabbar has never relished frightening children. He can’t claim it was his suddenly relaxed posture that lent steadiness to her voice, but it does please him to hear her more at ease, or at least capable of speaking clearly and with confidence. She’s impeccably polite, almost severely so— she sounds like him when he speaks to his superiors.
He meets her eyes again and can’t help the half-smile that stretches his lips. “The winds can be fickle sometimes,” he observes. “But they made my home the way it is, and I like it. Even with the occasional sand storm. These are the Dunes,” he says, introducing the territory with obvious pride as he turns his dished head to survey the golden hills. They are lacking in no way but one. Nereid’s absence, to him, is more glaring than the sun. He should be having this conversation with her, not a filly from the neighboring land. He flicks his black tail as if he can swat the fresh wave of irritation and rage out of his head. If he keeps moving it will abate, but he doesn’t feel right leaving this filly to fend for herself while he resumes his border patrol. And is this not part of his duty as a territory leader?
“Well, Indira,” he says. “Do your parents know you are here, or will they come storming my borders in search of you once they realize you are not where you should be?” She’s not in trouble with him for coming to the Dunes. He’s only half serious in asking her this question; any rational horse would soon see that no harm has befallen the girl and usher her home with little more than a stern conversation with him, perhaps. If they are likely to react violently, however, Gabbar would much rather meet her parents as he escorts her home than here across his own borders.
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