Gabbar
stallion . arabian . bay . 14.3hh . 6
Her reaction to him marks her immediately as a mare not from his homeland. Unless she ran with the ‘Tekes and supported halfbreeds— but still, her quick retreat tells Gabbar this black mare is not here to harm him. When he advances, she prepares to run and holds the pose when he stops. No. Definitely not a warrior come to kill him. The bay stallion relaxes at this confirmation and his attention and concern shifts from his own safety to the well-being of the Arabian before him. Her wounds do not appear life-threatening but they also do not appear to have been inflicted by anything with claws, hence his assumption another horse has attacked her.
She relaxes a bit, too, and shakes her head at his question. Gabbar is prepared to get to the bottom of the violence against her when she speaks in a voice scratchy with salt, asking for the one thing his is not prepared to give her. His dark eyes slip behind her, again searching the horizon but this time not for the familiar dished heads of the mares he knows, but rather any stranger in the waves of his coast. He has Evaline to think of, and Avangeline. This single mare poses no threat, certainly, but those who’ve harmed her do— and even though she claims not to have been followed, well does Gabbar know that a horse can think themselves safe from pursuit when they are in the most danger of being caught.
This is how the Akhal-Tekes operated. Stealth and pursuit, and ambush. Arabians are more clear-cut in their battle tactics, but both armies were fierce. He learned much fighting beside the sinewy mares and stallions with whom his people allied. Gabbar knows, too, from his own hunting —however nonviolent— of Iftikhar and El Halin that a determined horse will find their mark. One way or another.
He looks again at the black mare: slight and bleeding, but steady-eyed and of sound body otherwise. It could not hurt to rejuvenate her. If he comes across Avangeline he will tell her to be wary of newcomers until this mare has departed, for Gabbar has no desire to welcome war into his home. “This way,” he rumbles, all too aware of how long silence has hung between them as he deliberated what to do. The bay stallion turns and makes his way down the dune, haunches bunched as he moves stiffly down the shifting sand. There is no reason to walk the tops of the dunes nearest to shore, where anyone will see their silhouettes topping the sandpiles, and so he leads the black mare in the sloping valleys between the giant hills until they are further in the territory.
Even then, he leads her not toward the main oasis but instead travels east. There is a smaller body of water there, with fewer trees and less grass. It will suffice to refresh this traveler, and then he may send her on her way without endangering his herd. A rush of pride lifts Gabbar’s heart as he climbs to the top of a low dune. It feels good to care about a herd again, and to know he is the primary protector of it. There is pride in responsibility. He pauses at the top and looks at his companion to see how she is faring. They are surrounded on all sides by taller dunes, and he steps into the shadow cast by one to gain some respite from the sun. “Who are you?” he asks. He cannot keep his gaze from lingering on her injuries as he wonders who inflicted them, and perhaps most importantly, why.
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