She is well-groomed under the remains of the sandstorm's tantrum, he notes as his eyes trace the supple curves of her body. A natural eye-catcher with that dark coat and curling cascades of white hair. His gaze runs the subtle slope of her nose before meeting hers. A dished face has never been to his tastes, personally, but he will admit the innate pride of an Arabian —however diluted the breed— draws the eye unlike any other. She wears the carriage of her bloodline with all the grace of a hunting cat. Her eyes are direct, her actions controlled and deliberately designed to emphasize her best features, and her voice borders on an amused purr. Self-consciousness is likely as foreign an experience to her as empathy is to Işık.

His ears swivel forward attentively. Her claim to this territory, be it on her own behalf or for that of another, is noteworthy only in that possession of a land allows her to hold power and that might be useful to him down the line. At no point does he feel he has trespassed: Işık will go where he wills, when he wills it. Even Marceline's apparent claim over him is only a temporary restraint. His poorly-timed jaunt into the Dunes is a deliberate test of the spotted woman's tether, and he finds that leash to be very loose indeed.

Or perhaps she knew better than to go charging into a territory about to be swept by a sandstorm. Which begs the question, why is this woman standing so vulnerably in the path of such a beast?

She draws closer, uncurling her sensuous neck to bring her muzzle close to his own. He steps up to meet her, nose tucked and neck arched as he brushes his lips briefly against hers, drawing in her breath and savoring the subtle spice of her scent as it overwhelms the dust in his nares. Her voice is hungry, full of appetite, and he takes a step closer. "Call me Işık," he replies, lifting his muzzle away from hers to trace a path behind her ear, his lips barely grazing her skin. "And answer me this: how is it a woman like you stands alone?" He saw the flash of a colt's legs behind her, but that is only a boy, an inconvenience easily dismissed. What is curious to Işık is the scarcity of a herd gathered around her, this woman with such presence, and he wonders if she distances herself from them on purpose or if they were in some way separated. And he wants to know who, if anyone, might come charging through the haze in search of his missing trinket, for Işık can sense that this is a mare whose absence from a stallion's proverbial chest of jewels would not —should not— go unnoticed.