Gabbar
stallion . arabian . bay . 14.3hh . 6
He sees the light in the Akhal-Teke’s eyes just as it blinks out and she draws back a step. Her response is immediate and, truth be told, not at all what Gabbar expects. He stands sweating in the sun, uncomfortably aware of the sand itching all along his left side, and blinks. “Oh.” He exhales and turns his ears to the side, then lets his tail hang and shakes out his mane. “Well then. Help yourself,” he invites, tipping his head toward the water. Though it is likely tepid from the heat of the day there is more than enough to slake her thirst, he’s sure.
Gabbar removes himself from her personal space and busies himself with brushing the sand off his sweat-patched body rather than staring imperiously down at her while she drinks. Once he’s satisfied he’s gotten most of it off, the Arabian gives his whole body an abrupt shake to dislodge what he can’t quite reach and looks over at the slender mare. He’s always had purpose: fight for the herd, for the mares, for any general who gave him orders and follow them without question or hesitation. He supposes he broke that by obeying Rakkas’s orders to follow Iftikhar and El Halin. Those orders came from a breeder and not any ranked mare. Consort or not, Rakkas had no right to make such a call— but it was for the good of the herd, and to increase their chances of a victory. How could Gabbar refuse when the need was so great? Hubris.
The Arabian pushes thoughts of home gently away. “You must have some purpose,” he says, genuinely bewildered. Even now, having fulfilled his own mission and having broken away almost entirely from his culture’s traditions, Gabbar does not feel lost or as if he is existing without aim. “If not from the decree of another then certainly from a decision made by yourself. Why here? Why the Dunes?” There is no malice in his questions, only a deepening curiosity that has made him forget completely to offer his own name.
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