Maslakhat is a seasoned stallion. He meets her measured gaze with a look as unwavering, and pauses just long enough before answering her call. He is no colt prone to show his emotions at the slightest provocation, nor an Arabian breeder trained to leap at the beck of a mare, and perhaps this is where the white-nosed mare has tread in error by treating him as such. Shararat's tales of the men in her herd over the course of their long journey here together, and, of course, Ak Burun's own experience among the sexually frustrated have been too strong an influence on the way she treats the men here. Another adjustment, she muses, watching the mesmerizing flex of Maslakhat's musculature as he paces around the water to join her.

Black and gold complement one another under the bright, hot eye of the sun.

A few of the mares gathered distantly at the water's edge bear clear signs of his sown seed, and it does not escape her notice that all of them are the same slender, sleek breed. This might require further adjustments. But, perhaps not. She has not been among the herd enough to know what the stallion's preferences are beyond a predilection for the hot-blooded. Her hooded eyes shift briefly beyond Maslakhat in search of Kore's familiar dished profile, hoping to glean some information based on the swell of the girl's belly. Ak Burun flicks her tail when her gaze falls only on the faces of strangers, and she returns her attention to the owner of the Dunes as he settles before her and speaks.

"Yes," she replies as plainly, then lapses into silence. It should not be one black mare standing before him, but two. Maslakhat's eye would be drawn irrevocably to her refined Arabian soul-twin, as had been the pattern in the past, and Ak Burun would be free to exert her influence in the subtle method she most prefers: indirectly through another, while everything fell perfectly into place. Shararat has the innate grace of a queen; gregarious, fair, interesting; she captivates everyone she meets. It is too bad Iftikhar failed to see her true potential, blinded as she was by blood, Ak Burun thinks as her ears cup toward the stallion. But she had seen, and spirited Shararat away by moonlight with the express purpose of bringing her here to obtain the rank she should so rightfully hold— and all the while had worked her way deep into the heart of her so that they might be of one mind once the Arabian was elevated to her sandy throne.

She is irked that Shararat has sent no word since they last parted. The plan had always been to reconvene here, on Salem; why, then, was she absent, and why then had she not sent word? These thoughts have plagued Ak Burun all season, as constant as the stars overhead even when the sun dominated the sky, and they barb her now as she stands considering Maslakhat in increasingly prolonged silence. Finally, she draws in a breath to speak, noticing as she does so that there is no hint of her sister's scent lingering upon him. It seems he was equally unsuccessful in finding Shararat, if indeed he even looked at all.

"And look how your garden grows," Ak Burun says, as if no time at all has elapsed between her first word and these. Her dark eyes remain fixed on his. There's a stench to the northeast, a heavy musk she encountered on her return that did not belong to either of the stallions who occupy the Desert and the Badlands. It is fresh enough that perhaps the golden 'Teke does not know of this intrusion, and she offers him this information as if it were her gift to give. "I wonder if you know, Maslakhat, that weeds have taken root and are choking our borders."