Djinni (who had been raised by a mother with coloring more like a deer than a horse, alongside a brother with a turquoise and white mane, and with her own penchant for changing shape, size, and hue) doesn't find the running mare's coloring odd in the slightest. Pretty, yes, and most certainly unique even here in Beqanna; it is the other mare's antics that catch her eye.
Djinni had never tried to outrun a bird. Outfly, yes, but she'd never try something that she wasn't Almaty certain of winning. She likes that the red and white mare tries though, and admires her speed.
She briefly debates simply watching from a distance, a bit curious to see the kind of crowd that the runner would draw. But she has nowhere to go today, and nothing to do. There are no children waiting for her, no doe-eyed boy (or girl) pining in her absence. Why should she not make some time for conversation?
With a shake of her flaxen mane, Djinni steps down from the snowy hill and trots down a well-worn path toward the pinto mare. She gathers a few admiring stares of her own as she goes, and while she pretends to not notice, she certainly does. Today she is her own natural size and shape (lean, mostly Arabian, and small) but with a chestnut coat so bright it is nearly copper and a mane and tail as pale as flax. Her earrings and bracelets remain – as always – and they jangle merrily as she approaches the other mare.
“Hello there,” she says with an easy smile. “My condolences on your loss. I thought for sure you’d beat him.” With a light chuckle, she gestures up into the air where the bird has disappeared. “I’m Djinni, by the way. What’s your name?”