Frostfall shows no sign of surrendering her icy grasp on the world of Helovia. Even though it is well past midday, the world is darkened to the dim of dusk by the blizzard that howls and rages over the rolling hills, its blistering winds rising and falling with the force of a grounded ocean.

Heavy gray clouds swarm the sky, choking out the light of the sun with their pregnant bodies. Snow is tossed about, falling from above and lifting from the ground, swirling together until it is impossible to distinguish which direction they are meant to be coming from.

Rohan curses the storm in a string of profanities beneath his breath, his rugged features set into hard and rigid lines, green eyes narrowed as he squints against the biting force of the winds. Who would have thought that descending from the height of mountains would worsen the weather, but that just seems to be the Warlander’s luck this day as he plows forward. His strong body is bowed, fighting off the fierce gales that whip his pale hair about, their cold fingers reaching beneath the thickness of his coat and stealing away the warmth of his skin. He shivers involuntarily, scowling bitterly.

This storm seems to have come out of nowhere—one minute he has made himself warm, comfortable even, and then all of sudden he is somehow thrown into this monstrous snowstorm. Of course. Rohan pins his ears angrily, arching his muscular neck and tucking his head in towards his chest, hoping to shield his face from the worst of it.

He doesn’t even realize that the ground has begun to rise beneath his hooves, so thick is the snow and harrowing is the storm, that he can simply continue onward. Only when the climb becomes steeper does he take note of the different muscles working in his legs, their dull throb aching against the work of blustery gales.

Suddenly the clouds break and the Warlander rises to the summit—above the clouds, above the storm. It is quiet, and his ears ring with the abrupt change, his eyes resting on the sun in the horizon as it sheds its glowing light. Rohan feels as though he’s been ascended to the heavens. The clouds, now a fluffy white, lie still in a pristine blanket around his white capped mountain, sending this place into something otherworldly. The antlered stallion shakes the snow from his body and blinks the snowflakes from his lashes, in awe to have found such a place. So calm and serene in comparison to the angry blizzard below.


notes; Dream! I think I'm going to play it as though Rohan fell asleep somewhere else, and obviously doesn't realize that he's dreaming until he actually wakes up xD this should be fun!
tag; @[Sialia]
“Speech.”

Lend me your hand and we’ll conquer them all,

but lend me your heart and I’ll just let you fall.

Lend me your eyes I can change what you see,

but your soul you must keep,

t o t a l l y f r e e.

Seemingly out of nowhere the antlered stallion hears his name, the voice rising from the pristine blanket of clouds that stretches out around him, frozen in time like a calm, immaculate ocean that has been lifted into the heavens. Rohan’s ears twist through the mess of his thick forelock, the bright green of his eyes sweeping over the white of the mountain to rest on the mare—dark and black against the glowing whiteness and light, looking at him directly with the deep blue of her eyes.

“Sialia…” the Warlander murmurs in recognition. Perhaps a more practical part of him wonders why she is here, where she has come from—hadn’t he looked there before, where she is standing now?—but a larger part of him is far too distracted to ponder on such technicalities.

She is here, that is all that matters. A beautiful mare, an enchantress, and a witch of her game—even though many weeks have passed since their meeting, the stallion remembers her. His mind is quick and sharpened, prone to the dainty lines and voluptuous curves of a female’s body, slave like any man to the drive of testosterone and sinful desires that it spawns. He would be hard-pressed to forget any of them.

Sialia’s voice drifts to him again, far more seamless than he remembers, too perfect and smooth in its lilt—but perhaps time has worn the memory, and so for the sake of not wasting time, he doesn’t deliberate its strangeness for long. “Too long, sweetheart,” his brown lips crook into a roguish smirk, Rohan’s deep voice rumbling to broaden out through the space between them, which he is keen to diminish as lean, hairy legs move forward. He steps through the soft snow with his usual sweeping swagger, hardly delicate or elegant in his gait.

“Where have you been hiding?” One side of his brow rises accusingly, though there is a playfulness in his expression, only slightly wounded that she has kept herself from him since their departure in the Threshold. Not that it would truly be her fault, but he has since wandered through several of Helovia’s wilds, surely their paths would have crossed should she have wanted it. “You can’t keep yourself locked up in your snowy mountains forever,” he chuckles cynically, his large figure coming to rest in front of her, comfortable and at ease in this beautiful place they have found themselves in, despite its oddity.


tag; @[Sialia]
“Speech.”

Lend me your hand and we’ll conquer them all,

but lend me your heart and I’ll just let you fall.

Lend me your eyes I can change what you see,

but your soul you must keep,

t o t a l l y f r e e.

It would seem that the stallion’s memory of the black and blue enchantress has been, in many ways, greatly flawed. He could not have possibly imagined the Sialia before him. She is no less the fiery vixen that had approached him at Helovia’s Threshold—if anything, her seducing fascinations are only more bewitching, more tempting, more perfect. Here, in a state of mind that he has yet to be aware of, the antlered Warlander has molded in his mind a circumstance that is utterly and blessedly flawless (as far as he understands, at least). So wrapped up is he in his own thoughts, that he doesn’t care to consider it otherwise.

It is a pleasant, hallowed turn of events, and who would he be to question it?

The spiral-horned mare moves—slinks, slithers, dances—closer to him, the heat that exudes and mingles between their bodies radiating through the cold winter air, sparking as though it might ignite with the thoughts and passions that rise and swell within his body. Ever the slave, ever willing to serve his primal, animalistic desires. With his dark brown lips twisting into something of a grinning, mischievous smirk, Rohan squashes the little space between them like a bug between his fingers—his large body pressing against hers in a most comfortable and suggesting manner.

They hold each other’s eyes like wolves, jaws dripping with a hungry and ambitious lust. The stallion has nearly forgotten his playful taunts, thoughts quickly drifting to more gratifying things, actions; his fluted ears flick towards the mare before her words actually register through his wild and shameless haze. They bring a naughtier edge to his expression, the strong lines of his rugged features simpering, and his body puffing proudly beneath her gaze.

“Your offer is too tempting, my dear Sialia,” Rohan’s deep voice rumbles huskily through his chest, the thick muscles of his neck arching as he lowers his crowned head so that his lips might hover closer to her, the intensity of his eyes shadowed from beneath his heavy brow, “I don’t suppose I could take you up on it now, and leave the semantics to work themselves out later?” His tone lilts and ebbs against his tongue, persuading her as much as his body language. Perhaps, despite all of its obvious faults, her snowy mountains might not be such a bad idea. Perhaps they are tolerable when he has the company of such entrancing beauties (for she is not the only one who has bewitched him).

Perhaps, it is also possible to enjoy their charms here, right now.

He reaches for her, but she whips away—her pretty head turning, snapping, rejecting. Miffed, confused, and his skin prickling with indignation, Rohan withdraws. “Wha—?” He begins to question her, this perfection that is cracking, but he catches movement from the corner of his eye. Casting his green gaze about, the Warlander soon realizes that it is not movement at all—not physical, at least. He doesn’t understand…the whiteness of his rapture is fading, bleeding away into shadows and then light.

In what seems to have been the blink of an eye, they are no longer lifted upon the excellence of their snowy white mountain. Grass pokes up through the icy snow to tickle his fetlocks, and as he looks around him, he sees rolling hills that are spotted with bushes and rocks. Mountains rise against the horizon—it all looks too familiar, too real. How can this be?

Pursing his lips against the ragged breaths that tighten his throat, the antlered stallion shifts away from the black unicorn. The length of his pale tail whips sharply against his muscled flanks, his muscles bunching beneath his hairy skin as he forces himself to move, forces himself to reveal what his mind is screaming to deny. As he crests a hill, the land opens beneath him—and its buildings along with it. Rohan stiffens, his voice gasping in disbelief.

“Etherim.”


notes; I'm sure she would, and he'd definitely enjoy it xD Also! I imagine Etherim to look a lot like Rohan does in Lord of the Rings (haha xD)
tag; @[Sialia]
“Speech.”

Lend me your hand and we’ll conquer them all,

but lend me your heart and I’ll just let you fall.

Lend me your eyes I can change what you see,

but your soul you must keep,

t o t a l l y f r e e.

“How…?”
 
The antlered stallion finds himself struggling for words, his mind grasping for understanding and denying what is apparently so obvious before him—it all looks so familiar, so real. Etherim. The gently rolling landscape and the stone buildings are unmistakable, recognized immediately by a stallion who had spent all the years of his life in their shallow kingdom. He would know every hall and corridor of that great castle, every notch and hiding place, having shirked many duties in his youth for more favorable, pleasurable tasks. He is roiling inside, his body left frozen in something between awe and confusion—and, of course, bitterness.
 
Rohan hadn’t been forced to leave this place, after all.
 
He had ran.
 
It is the black mare’s voice that spooks him out of his trance. Having not heard her approach, her sudden proximity behind him is unexpected, ears flicking back in agitation before tilting forward at her voice. It is different again—no longer the impossibly perfect, surreal tone of the temptress before, but holding the depth and volume of an incantation now. It is as if there are many voices harnessed within her own, voices of his past, perhaps even his future—the whole weight of all of their disappointment and criticism fusing into something of shame and distress.
 
The Warlander realizes this too late. Their Her words buffet him without mercy, like the fiercest wind in a vicious storm, and he feels as though he’s been pummeled in the stomach. “What—I didn’t—!” His breath comes short and he gasps, not understanding why or how Sialia—of anyone—would be cursing him like this. Maybe he had been wrong, maybe his instinct had failed him, maybe he had been blinded by her temptations—maybe his father had sent her after him after all. Blinking against the chaos of his mind, it is then that the horned mare strikes something deeper, a nerve, and he feels his confusion release into fury.
 
“How could you let your brother down… Even in death, you let him down…”
 
Killian—
 
“No,” Rohan gasps, his large body suddenly squaring as his thick neck arches, snaking his head forward in nothing short of a threat towards her. “How dare you!” His deep voice, usually so smooth and broad, thunders now from his chest in an angry bellow of indignation. He sees himself as a leggy colt again, glancing up at his older brother and puffing out his chest at the pride he would receive, idolizing the perfect warrior and friend. Killian had been everything, to everyone—everything that he wasn’t. “You know nothing of Killian, or me for that matter. You have no right to accuse me of such things, you rotten, mindless little cur,” the Warlander spits at her with a hiss. He can feel a snarl building up in his throat, building up inside of him, fueling this heated mixture of confusion and rage and fear.
 
His tongue blisters and his body feels hot from whatever has taken him. Snapping his jaws together, green eyes follow hers to a young colt—a child, who has no business in this place, who shouldn’t be here. “Who is this? Why have you brought him?” Rohan thrusts his bearded chin gruffly towards the youngster. He is far too angry, distracted, and hurting to comprehend the plural ‘us’ at first, or to even consider the striking similarities between the two males. The mare’s words hit him again—like a knife this time, sharp and quick, he almost doesn’t feel it at first.
 
“…To me, and our son.”
 
And then it sinks in. Deep and piercing, the sinews of his flesh and muscle settle around the whetted blade, and he knows he couldn’t possibly remove it. “Our—what?” Rohan stumbles a step back, aghast, suddenly feeling very lightheaded and unsteady on his feet. His large body sways as ears bury into the mess of his mane, his attention unable to leave the colt. No. The stallion can’t believe it. With his eyes snapping back to the mare, they narrow dangerously. “I don’t recall that we ever did that, Sialia, what the hell are you talking about?!” His angry voice is nearly a plea now, a cry for explanation, for all of this to make sense.
 
“I couldn’t have let you down if I hadn’t even known about the little bastard, now could I?” He snarls, eyes flashing beneath the shadow of his brow as he glares at the black temptress, this evil angel that has come to punish him now. Somewhere deep inside of him, Rohan feels the stab of guilt. If this was, in fact, his child, perhaps this conversation would steer in a different direction. But he can’t admit to that—he can’t even allow a centimeter of margin in his position. Doing so would damage both his pride and his standing, and he is too foolish for that now. And so inhaling a trembling breath, he pins Sialia with his heavy stare, forcing from his lips a shuddering plea demand, “What the hell is going on?”


notes; I'm sorry for the wait! I'll try to keep them coming faster now, I'm excited! Can't wait for him to confront her in reality xD
“Speech.”

Lend me your hand and we’ll conquer them all,

but lend me your heart and I’ll just let you fall.

Lend me your eyes I can change what you see,

but your soul you must keep,

t o t a l l y   f r e e.