Her tongue was sharp, pointed but unrefined—typical of an Arabian youth who grew up among the sands, expectations of their greatness prevailing with every whim within their words. Maslakhat did not take offense to her bluntness however, he was quite used to dealing with such spice, even if it didn’t necessarily impress him. And he would rather contend with creatures he knew—who behaved as he expected—than the sort who lived without any prevailing logic. Truly those were the sort needed to be carefully regarded—the unpredictable.
“Evidently,” he replied flatly. Yes, she certainly held some favor with the gods if they would allow her to flaunt herself as such before them, striking out and begging for their wrath. He watched her carefully as she descended the dune and waded elbow-deep into the murky water, clearing it of debris with a few brushes of her muzzle impatiently, instead of waiting for the dirt to settle.
He let a sly grin stretch over his face as she looked back to him, her ears pricked, inquiring on his excuse. “The gods are not as favorable towards me,” he replied, disparaging them subtly. “They have learned I am not easily swayed by their prowess.”
While Maslakhat acknowledged the existence of the gods, he never saw himself as beholden to them. He was not so devout that he would change his behavior to appease them. In truth, he did not stand out in the open rain because he did not wish to be as wet, not for fear of being struck by lightning. But mostly, he sheltered because he understood the possibility of such events, and it simply wasn’t pertinent to place oneself in a position of vulnerability for no reason. He was a proud creature, like the grey mare before him, but he knew better than to tempt fate to demonstrate that fact.
“I am Maslakhat,” he offered before continuing, half-expecting she might possess the etiquette to share her name as well. “I hope you find your stay within these borders suitable.”
MASLAKHAT
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