Gabbar
stallion . arabian . bay . 14.3hh . 6
For the first time that he can remember, Gabbar feels a sudden possessiveness of the Dunes. Some of it must stem from the culture he has renounced: it feels like a backward step to acknowledge a mare having equal standing with him, being so new to power himself. But that is a small part, for he knows he is no better or worse than Evaline or Avanegline or, yes, even this sleek black Akhal-Teke he stands beside. Each individual is uniquely equipped given their own life experiences. The rest of his reservations come from a fear that wells within him, a fear that Valve will corrupt this herd with the same vicious groupthink he grew up with which vilifies horses who are not purely bred. Gabbar will not have that here.
He must make it very clear, then, that these Dunes will not be ruled by an oppressive hoof for as long as he calls these hills home.
“No,” Gabbar says, and though his voice is soft it is not without conviction. “The loyalty you speak of is, I think, conditional upon bloodlines. I’ll not lead a band of horses who stay together out of some misplaced sense of superiority.” The bay Arabian holds Valve’s stare to be certain she understands exactly what he means as he continues, “Trust. Trust is of the utmost importance. In a land such as this we cannot afford petty internal strife. I’ll not tolerate it.”
His cards have all being laid out on the table, so to speak. It is up to Valve now whether she will bow to this rule she might find unnatural or take her leave of it entirely. Gabbar watches her, tail flicking idly above his heels, and feels a bit of peace as he waits for her reaction. How she reacts is out of his control. He’ll take none of it back. This sand belongs to him, and he’ll not run it in the same vein of hatred as his dam controlled the troops in the desert.
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