To see the mare move startles Ak Burun: sweat gathers suddenly across her hide as her whole body clenches, reflexively, and she holds herself still, still as a mare snared by the lion’s gaze, fighting the panic of one who faces the very real possibility of death. She’s seen that fluidity before, watched her own blood don the mantle of the snake and sidle unnaturally to instill this exact sensation in others and she is chilled at the memory, cold settling so deep within her it sets her nerves on edge.
She maintains her composure, mostly, as the mare shows her an expression that fails to light up her eyes. This, too, she has seen before. She knows from experience that the less she gives, the better off she will be. Her ears remain forward, her eyes steady on the other mare, and only a faint shudder works its way through her limbs now and again. Ak Burun is not often frightened. She does not like to be reminded of the times that she was.
"All wars are personal," she replies, both as an acknowledgement to the other’s response and the question which follows. Her voice steadies, heart calming quickly. He is not here, she reminds herself, and takes a deep breath of the cold air to ground herself on these Islands. "I come from a land ravaged by such wars. One can almost breathe the blood spilled there. But, never before have I seen a horse as scarred as you." She keeps her tone light, her expression free of her desire to recoil and get away from this freakish creature. Ak Burun must know the why, and perhaps in doing so learn the how. "So you see, I am impressed. And curious," she continues, boldly allowing herself to take one step closer. Bold, or stupid? Do you deliver yourself straight to the lion’s waiting jaws, little sister?
She flicks one ear, dismissing the voice of the past and with it the last vestiges of her fear. "Why am I the first to have given your victories the attention they are due?" |