. Begin Your Journey .: Go back to sleep.

Though they are quite possibly the same age, there is a strong contrast (besides color) between the gray and black stallions. Mutalation still feels knew in Abaaya, still learning the changing ways of the desert, while Bartholomew has become one with the harsh land's very soul. It is his home, and he feels as though he is a mere extention of the dunes themselves. Abaaya is predictable in that it is not predictable.

Bartholomew's small ears press forward, eyes still narrowed but with significantly less scrutiny, his suspicion lessening. When a stallion has two girls waltz home and everyone else has none, you can be sure more than one jealous eye has been cast his way. Not that anyone would be stupid enough to try to get one from him. Not now.

His black face is perfectly impassive as Mutalation speaks, head tilted and held high, listening carefully. His posture is one of attention, as though each neuron ready to explode with commands to attack. Bartholomew...want something? Silence follow the gray stallion's words as Bartholomew considers them, silence that stretches unendingly between them. Finally, he twists his refined head to the side, watching his guest out of only his left eye, the first movement he's made in several minutes.

There is little you have, or will have, or could have, that I want. But -- I am loathe to block your way. My condition is this: if you want my vote, you will become indebted to me. When an underling comes to you to demand your vote, the answer will not be yours to give. Instead, you will find me and ask my answer. This debt will stand until I reach CONCRETE, at which point you will be free...unless, of course, you find yourself in need of another vote.

An easy enough agreement to accept with enthusiasm, with every intent of dropping it as soon as you're out the door and running with your vote. But be wary, Mutalation: your word to Bartholomew is strong, and should you break it, he will be sure to break your body to match.