Al-Hattaal could not linger on the Crossing any longer. With every day that passed he feared that the High Seer might find him again and punish him for his lack of ambition. Truthfully, the black Arabian wanted little to do with war or fighting any longer. He was no warrior—he gained no pleasure from his hooves striking another, nor his teeth gripping the skin of his foes. Al-Hattaal’s best trait was his swiftness—and his great speed had carried him to the farthest corner of the isles—the Prairie of Luthien.

He had been here once before, with Avangeline at his side, and the familiar sight of the golden grass against his stark black coat reminded him of her instantly. They were going to explore all of the islands together, so that perhaps Al-Hattaal would have the good fortune of coming across his long-lost sister. But alas, this was the last adventure him and his dear friend had before Iftikhar crossed their path. Iftikhar who somehow saw value in the fine-boned desert breeder and demanded his seed, which of course was an order he could not defy. He had no passion for the fire-red mare. She terrified him, truthfully, but if that encounter produced a daughter then he knew she was likely still among these islands somewhere—and Al-Hattaal could not bear the thought of disappointing another of his kin.

His rapid gallop from the edge of the ocean slowing abruptly into a casual amble, the black Arabian lifted his dished head and whickered for anyone within earshot. He hoped that maybe whoever controlled these bordered now was amicable and might be able to offer some temporary shelter, or at the very least some advice.

A L - H A T T A A L
Zaman sana uymazsa sen zamana uy.