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Nekharat tipped her head lightly, pleasantly acknowledging Shararat’s kind offer to show her towards the oasis. She had almost forgotten her thirst, but as the heat of the day approached, she knew the scratch of dehydration in the back of her throat would likely return soon. “Thank you, Shararat,” she offered, testing the lovely cadence of her companion’s name on her lips and finding it as delightful as the cool drink of water they were headed toward.

“She never gave me her name,” Nekharat commented on the baroque buckskin mare first, thinking it odd that for all her talk, she would omit that formality. Perhaps it was an oversight, but it certainly did nothing to bolster a favorable first impression. The red mare did gather that she was bitter. The others, Bahadir included, had called her hateful, but that seemed a rather extreme judgement. Bitter, yes. Hateful, no. “I will not claim to know Bahadir—his strengths or his faults,” she continued. “But he had very little issue naming this mare hateful and a liar.”

Nekharat flashed a look in Shararat’s direction at the end of her statement, almost mischievous in its fashion. She snorted lightly and spoke again. “It was a rather uncouth exchange, and not the sort of company I prefer to keep. I travelled here to see if this was typical of his nature, but since he is absent, perhaps you can speak to your experience.”

Yes, perhaps the two of them might paint a picture that was more representative of his true character. Nekharat did not expect perfection either, but she was definitely interested in exploring worthiness. Possessing a land such as these Dunes was a privilege, and in such a position, the leader was afforded a certain amount of responsibility. If there was a failing of these responsibilities or a sense of arrogance around this privilege, the red mare found it only right to disrupt it.

NEKHARAT