There's that saying that's been around for as long as he could remember... Wait, how does it go? Oh, right. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Well, that saying was certainly quite fitting for this particular situation that the best of bronze of bistre had founded himself in. It hadn't necessarily been a matter of choice, or at least that was how it had seemed and that had been good enough for him. A part of him and enjoyed his short lived rule over the dense forested realm once known as Verona, but there had been a change in circumstances that had been a little more aggressive than your typical brand of encouragement for the stallion to make a hasty departure, though not without his precious little dove with metaphorically clipped wings. He'd worked quite hard to make her surrender to him, but his efforts had been "generously" rewarded. They were both wanderers at the present time, but as any halfway decent stallion with a good (and let's not forget devilishly handsome!) head on his shoulders, he was searching for that nice little place to settle once again. After all, his darling little bird needed a cage to feel safe - though perhaps in reality it was just his excuse for finding a place to lock her away like he had before. Not that he was ready to admit he was starting to become quite attached to his little pet, of course.

He'd left her safely tucked away just inside the seemingly quiet realm known as Arid Plains. The ruler of that kingdom had once come knocking on the door of Verona (now known as Brannis) asking for an alliance to be made between the two territories. The handsome Spanish stallion had procrastinated on the matter of responding to this Aftershock fellow, and perhaps that had come to bite him in the hindquarters now since it seemed the milky white king had gone amiss somewhere, his scent almost vanished from the marked borders of Arid Plains. Now, Bastille might not have been the most successful of rulers, but he would never have just up and vanished like Aftershock seemed to. And with the disappearance of the snowy stallion, so went with him the chance that the beast of bronze and bistre could settle there with his little Larka. That was what now brought him to the edge of this realm of rolling hills, evergreens, and vibrant life.

Twin peaks flick about atop his proud Spanish head, sable whipcords brushing lightly against his handsomely arched nape as a warm springtime breeze buffeted against his masculine frame, mocha depths studying the landscape before him with an appreciative gaze. Yes, this place would do quite nicely if he did say so himself. Larka would probably prefer this realm over the other anyhow, now all that he had to do was see about getting this Rhaego guy to let him and his doveling join the ranks here. For Larka, it would be easy seeing as she was not only a mare but a gorgeous one (almost as beautiful as he was handsome... almost), but for Bastille it was a different story entirely. Why, one might ask? Well, he wasn't necessarily a mare, and if the rumors he'd heard of this king in the meadow were true, the male presence wasn't one that was welcomed warmly. Ah, but the handsome beast was not without his... talents. As the winds shift and begin to cause his sable whipcords to wrap around his hind limbs, it brings to his attention an increasingly familiar sweet scent. It was one of the lovely creatures he'd shared a moment of passion with by the lake. He'd acted as though he hadn't realized she'd been following him ever since that evening of false intimacy, both he and the beautiful unnamed face having given in to that call of mother nature to procreate. He could remember the soft moans of ecstacy that had escaped past her lips at his special touch, and well, the rest is history but he had never thought she would follow him, seemingly addicted to his touch. Perhaps he'd touched her skin one too many times? No matter, she would do quite nicely as payment to the good kind of The Forbidden Dale - hopefully. Whiskered lips part and he ushers forth a trumpeting call then falls silent, muscled relaxed ad sable whipcords flick against his flank almost lazily despite the mild note of uncertainty that lurked in the back of his mind as he waits patiently, mocha gaze ever watchful for movement on the horizon just outside the borders, knowing full well that stepping over that marked line in the sand would likely bring unwanted results.


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I'LL GIVE YOU FEELINGS
THAT YOU WON'T WANNA FIGHT
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Bastille : Stallion : 9 years : Lusitano
Seal Brown Cream (Brown Buckskin) [image!] : Two hind socks, thin blaze in the shape of a jagged lightning bolt, starting in a pointed star in the center of his forehead and ending in a thick snip between his nostrils : Ee/A^ta/nCr/nSpl
Homeless : Rogue