Indeed time was a precious thing.... for some. Individuals ran about almost like headless chickens at times, their minds gone astray and all sense of instinct or common judgment having taken flight like startled sparrows in a thunderstorm. So many seemed to fret about the rapidly changing seasons, always worried about how harsh the coming days would be. Too many seemed to stress about what was to be done with the short time that there was in a day, from sunrise to sunset. It was almost like the world was coming to an end, and everyone was scrambling senselessly to prepare themselves for this that or the other thing. All the while the beast of bronze and bistre would simply prop himself up against a nice, shady tree and allow mocha eyes to simply watch with undeniable amusement as comers and goers of the meadow scurried about like scattered ants when the nest was turned to crumbled ruins at the hands (wait... is it claws? Maybe it's claws, not hands) of a voracious ant eater. Sometimes, the random events of any given day in this wild world called Mist Meadows just seemed like senseless chaos.

Bastille was not into the whole "living life if the fast lane" shenanigans. Some stallions in their prime were dead set claiming a plot of land for themselves, so that they would have a place to start building a quaint little harem of pretty little hides that they could sit there and gawk at with some curious sense of pride, or even fight for their honor. Bastille never understood that desire. Yes, he loved women. Oh, don't get him wrong on that bit in the least! However, with that said, he preferred that his encounters with beautiful faces be kept as just that; encounters. He did not want to find and gather them up like trinkets, that was not his style. He was much happier simply wining them and dining them, crooning to them until they were absolutely head of heels (metaphorically speaking of course, since horses don't really have the kind of heels that come to mind...) for his silly smooth baritones and delicately picked words that were almost as delicately picked as wild flowers on the side of a dirt road for some lucky gal in some silly fantasy world. And, when he had them begging lustfully for his touch.... just when they simply can't get enough.... he vanishes never to be seen again. That was how he liked it; hit it and quit it. He ain't no long term commitment family kind of guy, let's not fool ourselves there! So really, save for the exception of his little doveling Larka, he had little to no reason to make a nice niche for himself and a collection of mares. It just wasn't something that suited him. Lucky for Rhaego, huh?

The mealy fellow speaks his first string of words, and perhaps to some degree the handsome Spanish bloke was surprised. No fancy shmancy title? Well, expect it or were a mare? If Bastille had to guess, this burly guy before him was just about as certain that mares were trinkets as the beast of bronze and bistre was. The soft and distant promise of common ground on which they might find some sort of curious and trusting relationship on, perhaps? Only time would tell. The Spanish stallion gave the draft a nod of acknowledgment, but it was when Rhaego's next two strings ushered forth that (particularly the one in reference to his bargain) that caused an amused grin to tug at the corners of his whiskered lips.

"My doveling is more than enough for myself. I find that the more there are in an area, the bigger the headache they are to deal with. And I'm not interested in sorting out mares' nonsense or negotiating treaties. I prefer peace and quiet."

He pauses for a moment, letting his words sink into Rhaego's thoughts for better and more thorough consideration. He dips his handsome head to the mealy dun after the moment of silence.

"Consider the first payment mare to be a lovely little thing named Kaoessa. She'll be along in about a day's time, I'd say. And I already have plans for two more. Sound fair for a couple months of homage?"

His grin changes in nature now. It shifts from a lazy and slightly amused demeanor to one a little darker. Oh, did he have quite the lady in store for Rhaego. All he needed now was that beta position, and he'd be sure that Rhaego never regretted it.


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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 : Rogue : No Heart-Strummer