Ak Burun's ears twist back at his loaded remark. How unsurprising to hear him gloat over his flourishing herd and insult her in the same breath— as if the black 'Teke has any responsibility over the health of the herd or, indeed, has expressed any interest in the Dunes beyond the territory itself, but her lack of investment is irrelevant in the face of his perceived scorn. Her dark gaze flicks over the others near the pool and, while the one entrapped in so much strangeness is beginning to look more like a mare and less like some monster risen from the sands, still Ak Burun finds the herd decidedly average. Kore proved herself to be a wilder card than anticipated, and Sayyida... the white nosed mare has glimpsed her wandering with the other mass of horses who share these sands with a child now at her hip. Ak Burun considers each of them a lost cause. Again, she reflects that the loss of Shararat has been monumental. She had come across the regal Arabian at the right place and time, when the black mare's heart was open and yielding and pliable enough to be wrapped around a trellis of Ak Burun's own design with nary any awareness of how she was being shaped so that she might flower when and where the 'Teke desired and not a minute before.

Now she is absent from Ak Burun's radar, plucked perhaps by some stallion passing through or unearthed by the elements and set adrift on the wind. This rankles almost as much as Maslakhat's blatant flaunting of his success over her. She snorts and moves her eyes to meet the golden stallion's hooded stare once more, pushing her ears forward with some effort. All her time and attention, wasted, for what if she were to find Shararat now with her petals crushed or some other blemish discoloring her pristine self? Or, perhaps worse, to find the black Arabian having deliberately chosen to depart from Salem without consulting with or indeed even attempting to have left word for her dear, dear sister. What change has the world wrought on her perfect blossom in the ever-increasing time they have been apart? How comfortable might she be, by the time they are reunited, in thinking for herself?

"Of course," she replies crisply, weighing the detriment of a pawn who gained free will against the probability of sweet, pliable Shararat abandoning their pact on a whim. Still, she clings to the thought that if only she can locate and return her fine-boned friend to these sands, her hold will be reinforced (if it has slipped at all, for a small part of her mind whispers that perhaps her dear Shararat has been abducted and lies wallowing in a solitary hell bereft of the black 'Teke's comfort and company) and the stoic stallion before her will be properly smitten— regardless of Ak Burun's ties. These thoughts churn within her as she shifts under the bright-eyed sun to angle herself toward the opposite end of the territory in quiet declaration of her intent, but she does not yet move to take her leave. "Perhaps I will see to it, then, as you are doubtless kept busy here tending to your newest sprouts."

He has obviously had a fruitful spring. Her eyes dart again to the gathered mares, noting the absence of Kore. How useful it would be to have her knowledge of the workings of the herd; Ak Burun has no interest in the social minutiae that brings a herd together and has abstained, here, but now she sees her error in choosing to remain aloof and uninvolved. She knows not who has high standing with Maslakhat nor how they've achieved it, or if indeed anyone has captured his regard. If anyone were to be savvy to such things, it would be sweet and even-tempered Kore— of whom she has not seen hide nor hair since their excursion to the Badlands.

Ak Burun keeps her eyes in the distance and swishes her sparse tail idly. "Almost, I mistook it as belonging to one of the myriad other males you've encouraged to take up residence within the Dunes— sometimes I barely scent you among all these stallions," she says with a laugh that might have been coquettish if her eyes glittered with anything other than spite, and if her smile was less a rictus of bared teeth through which her words were squeezed. Ordinarily Shararat would be present to temper the 'Teke's sharp edges with her inviting femininity, but now it is only Ak Burun. Her gaze shifts back now to Maslakhat, and though her expression relaxes to a tight-lipped smile her eyes are still hard as obsidian. "I suppose the status of weed or flower is, after all, just a matter of perspective. Rest assured, dear malik," she continues, savoring the middle consonant's flip as she throws the word at his hooves, "I'll see it is dealt with accordingly."

She is hardly resplendent in all her thorns.