He pushes forward, charging, clenching the glass shaft of the spear between his teeth until he can feel it grate against enamel. For the shortest moment, the Warlander feels almost weightless, with the racing of his heart and the euphoria of adrenaline lifting him from the mire of shame anger that has overwhelmed him. For the shortest of moments, he feels—redeemed.

However, despite all the tricks and fantasies of his crooked mind, Rohan cannot escape the shackles of his disgrace.
(Not even for a moment).
Like hitting the hard ground after falling, he is buffeted by the literal pain of reality.

The tip of his spear strikes nothing. Like having the rug (your safe line) pulled from under your feet, the force of the Sergeant’s momentum propels him forward. Betrayed by the power of his own body, he openly delivers himself to his king’s counter attack, increasing what would have been a shallow wound into an awful, muscle-deep laceration. His breath hitches in a sharp gasp upon impact, the spear nearly falling from his lips, while pain shoots from his chest, lancing across his shoulders and searing through his veins like wildfire—

—And there is something else that blooms alongside the agony; something far more devastating, somehow. Humiliation. A new kind of shame, one that attacks his mind as terribly as Tembonu’s spear attacks his body. (How has he failed so viciously?)—

All along, Rohan continues to stumble forward, his mind a disarray of panic, pain, and commands that do little to gain control of his hairy body.
Blood sprays from his severed veins like a geyser from the earth—a grotesque halation of his failure.

From the middle of Rohan’s breast to the left point of his lower neck, the tip of Tembovu’s spear slices a steep, diagonal line upwards. Fortunately (or perhaps regrettably) the sharp glass gouges a clean line through his flesh, penetrating his skin like a hot knife through butter (and oh how it burns). Groaning a muted roar past the glass weapon he holds, the Warlander half-way collides into the larger stallion before he is able to regain some control of his momentum.

Clenching the muscles in his haunches, he pivots himself back to the right and away from the Elephant King, awkwardly swinging the left point of his spear as he does so in a final hope of breaking skin.

As he turns, Rohan slips once on the slick ground, grunting when he has to land forcefully on his front legs to keep himself moving. Sweet adrenaline drives him with a dangerous determination, fed by the hot sting of his wound as it flares angrily (his chest is tight, pinched, and every breath must be forced between a needle-thin gap through the pain). Attempting to harness the force of his body to his own advantage this time, Rohan continues his pivot to 180 degrees, now bringing him around to Tembovu’s rear end. Trying to aim the right point of his spear perpendicularly towards Tembovu’s right flank, the Warlander hopes his momentum will aid in a deep enough blow.


“Speech.”
Attack: 2/3
WC: 525
Damage tracker: A bleeding, muscle-deep cut from the middle of his breast to the left point of his lower neck.