The sun dries her thin coat to its usual sleek shimmer so quickly that the ocean is little more than an impression of salt on her skin. Her dark eyes flit between the horses mingling below, monitoring their movements and making note of who stands with who. And so when one parts from the others, her attention likewise shifts to follow the horse who approaches her golden throne. She notes the white flash of each leg as the mare crosses the sands, eyes lingering on the curve of each ear evident even from her height. Ak Burun’s dark eyes flash with interest.
The black descends, quickly, hindquarters tucked and weight braced back so she slides her way down the dune. Sand plumes behind her, and as Ak Burun reaches the base she leaps from the slope to trot to a graceful halt in front of Naz, narrow head held high and cutting a pose even Shararat might look upon with envy. She regards the bowed head of the mare from under thick lashes, then grins.
"Canım. Şapkanı beğendim," she says, boldly reaching forward to blow gently on the Marwari’s ears. Ak Burun has little use for social niceties, and often disregards them as pointless. She also is inclined to believe that all space is her space: boundaries go unacknowledged and, at times, are flagrantly stepped over. "Tell me," she says, eyes drifting beyond the mare and to the herd gathered beyond. "To whom do these Dunes belong?" |