Rigel was forthcoming, perhaps more than he should be, but an abundance of words was not necessarily a strange quality for a diplomat, especially one tasked with convincing a stranger of their group’s intentions. Maslakhat listened carefully, his ears flicked forward and amber eyes fixed on the painted Arabian as he explained in some detail the quirks and origins of he and his brothers. High-borns bored by their place within their homeland and out for another angle by which to warm their backs in the sun. Easy enough, though the Akhal-Teke suspected great boredom might have also been at play—in which case he would be more than happy to provide a little purpose.

“There is no need for such formality here, Rigel,” he began, referring to his overly respectful bow. “You and your brothers may stay here as long as you desire, provided you keep watch of these lands as diligently as I do.” Maslakhat paused a moment, considering the opportunity to further his grasp while they still felt a sense of indebtedness. “And course, freely share information on any who may seek to disrupt the sanctity of these sands.”

Maslakhat knew that sooner or later, he would be faced with opposition to his unfaltering view that the Dunes was meant only for those with similar hot-blooded constitutions. He would need allies who shared these views, and who could successfully keep watch upon these gates, swift to defend, correct and maintain course. After all, there were more formidable challenges still to come.


MASLAKHAT

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