Maslakhat skips no beat, doesn't bat even one hooded eye at the strength of her scorn as she flicks it like acid from her fingers, and Ak Burun finds the small amount of breath she has been holding escaping her in what is almost a hiss. He is immovable. Immune to insult, to slight, to defiance, to blatant disrespect. Not one causes him to lose his composure nor, indeed, even alter his countenance in the slightest beyond a mild note of admonishment in his voice when he replies. He is sculpted of bronze and as difficult to penetrate.

He is unlike any stallion she has ever encountered.

Her mercurial brother had served as her standard of the masculine sex for years. He, too, held his cards close to his chest, but where Maslakhat remains slate-cool her brother would be wont to react when pressed. It appears this golden bay stallion has no buttons— none that she's been able to ferret out, yet, and perhaps with the turning of seasons it would behoove her to parade about with her tail raised to see if that yields from him any vulnerability, but at that thought Ak Burun wrinkles her pale nose and utters a light snort. Such a task belongs to Shararat, not her.

And if she cannot unseat this stallion from within, perhaps she will see what damage can be wrought without.

"With your blessing, then," she replies with a flick of her tail. One ear cants toward Maslakhat as she steps out and her hooded gaze holds his as she passes, head craning to maintain eye contact for several steps before she snaps her tail again and glides into a fluid, forward-facing trot that will bring her to the border between territories by day's end.