The stallion shakes himself of the pretended urgency, picking a pace that takes no time at all to find the leggy desert-cousin that was master here. He is small, compact and well formed, but he approaches with a pride that made his presence seem plenty big enough - for all that he is angled when he approaches the stallion and that he makes ever effort to look that exact part he owed the stallion before him.

"You must be the diplomat." It was not a question and he did not expect anything less. “The least affronting of my number, yes. My elder brother is normally the one to exchange pleasantries, but we thought it best to send me so that he might wrangle my more hot-blooded brothers.” He does not lie, for he never did. He could almost claim that Thoth himself had forbade it, so intrinsic it was to his nature. “Atair is well enough a fellow, but my brother Aldebaran is young and does not understand what it means to owe respect. He was a prince that our mother doted on too much and father chastised too little. All of us promise our greatest effort to tame him, as only brothers may.”

There is a cheeky tweak to his grin, meaning he would not be so utterly without use in that venture. The peacemongers were always the best at waging shadow-warfare, afterall. "I am Maslakhat. These are the Dunes." The introduction is enough to settle some of the Arab’s nerves, his tail giving a small flick and his head bobbing in a double bow. “I am Rigel,” and it sounded like REE-ghel when he spoke it, “I am the secondborn of our party. We come from a desert that had either too much or too little use for us. Too free of spirit to want lordship or battle-duty or anything more than to live beneath the blazing eye of Ra and to be warmed amid his sands.”

He bows his head low, rubbing his nose against a salted leg, considering, but ending with an offer of his muzzle by way of a craned crest. “Would you suffer us to live here, Master of Dunes?”