The Arabian absorbs all that Nekharat tells her without surprise, or judgement, and when the sleek red mare turns the conversation back to her Shararat’s gaze goes afar for a moment, a dreamy "Uhm," escaping her like a purr as she smiles. The memory of their initial encounter is a pleasant one, and she enjoys basking in the romance of it for a moment, wishing only that her companion, too, has had a similar experience. Shararat enjoyed their flirtation immensely and is interested in continuing it; for now, it is fun to ruminate and, yes, gossip a bit with a new friend.
"He is handsome, Bahadir, and I’ve found no fault with him thus far. His herd seems collected and at ease. Comfortable," Shararat says thoughtfully, her expression only a little more sober as she falls into the familiar pattern of reporting she is used to sharing with Ak Burun. "He has referenced two gods in my company but I know little enough about them beyond their names... Kohn-something, and one called Bast."
Shararat believes in her own deities only loosely, certainly not with the fanatical fervor of the horses from the sands of the damned. They are a comfort she draws on with regularity, like a child taking solace in fairy tales. She does not truly believe there is a mare overseeing the world, so consumed by her own wrath that her skin is volcanic and molten, veined with white-hot heat as she doles out her rage upon those she deems unworthy. Nor does she believe Uzay consumes the dead, or that the threat of his abyssal gaze can truly be found in the dark of the night. They are ridiculous fantasies— but entertaining, when one fantasizes. Certainly not a viable reason for the staggering amount of bloodshed in the land she has fled.
"He did tell me he has spilled his own blood to protect these sands," Shararat continues as they walk between the dunes. It will not be long now before they reach the oasis: she can smell the water in the air, the verdant foliage growing strong around the pool. She pauses now, before they reach the rest of the herd, in case her guest has any reservations. "Our conversation regarding it was brief, but quite mild. I know little about the circumstances that surround his defense of the Dunes— or of the mare involved. He seems honorable to me, and my impression of him is that he would not make such accusations lightly, or to save face. But," she acknowledges with a little smile, "I must admit that is a gut feeling from me, and influenced in part by our moonlit meeting." Again, her expression turns dreamy for a moment before she laughs, amused at her own ridiculous levity. It must be delightful to be truly in love. |