(cw very brief mention of a dead body)

Distantly, as though from outside his own body, Hasan watches as a striking patchwork stallion breaks away from the herd and moves in his direction. Instinctively Hasan pauses mid-stride, his piebald body tensing as he judges whether the other stallion is about to attack or chase him out—as herd stallions are wont to do—but the stallion's stride is loose and easy, his expression calm and his ears forward.

Clearly the man sees him as no threat.

Hasan doesn't blame him: he feels as though the slightest breath of wind will blow him into salt-and-pepper dust. Just in case, however, Hasan plants his hooves in the sandy soil and lets the stranger come the rest of the way to him, while keeping his neck low and relaxed and his expression neutral. He does not intend on joining his mother in the afterlife just yet.

"You look like you've seen better days," the stranger says.

"You could say that," Hasan opens his mouth to say, but all that comes out is a dry croak. He presses his lips together with embarrassment and instead dips his white chin an inch or two in a gesture of affirmation.

The stallion offers him a drink, but before Hasan can express his gratitude, he is offered an introduction and obligated to provide the same. A fair trade under normal circumstances, but when Hasan swallows in an attempt to whet his salivary glands, his mouth is still left as dry as the earth beneath him.

After visibly struggling a moment, during which his amber eyes meet Asmodeus's and then flit away nervously, Hasan manages to hiss out his own name, the syllables as thin and slithery as the serpents that call the Desert home.

"H-Hasan."

The mental image of his mother in the sand, her copper eyes reflecting the wingspans of the birds who would turn her back into dust, flashes briefly in his mind.

"I could really use that drink," he rasps in a half-whisper.