rohan
how fickle my heart

As if the blackness of night isn’t hindering his vision enough, Frostfall does not disappoint in her blustery storms. Tempestuous clouds, lined with ribbons of silver as the moon’s light manages to seep between the bare patches, churn angrily overhead—swollen and heavy with the promise of their winter blizzard. Before long the white flakes are tumbling from their mother tempest—slow at first, but the flurries quickly swell into roiling whirlwinds, whipping to mold together, thickening in their number as they fall.

Rohan arches his neck and back, bowing his strong body against the frosty breath of wind that dances its own chaotic ballet over the arctic tundra. The turn of the cold season has thickened his coat, giving him an ample covering to compete with the frigid frost that gusts through the land—even so, his skin is not entirely immune from the icy fingers of winter’s grasp. It nips at him, leaving him numb. Jaw muscles flex as the Warlander clenches his teeth, scowling into the snow-streaked disarray that has become his vision.

After departing from the fog-shrouded borders of World’s Edge, he had simply left—to who or to where, he had not cared. He had simply just wanted to leave. Not necessarily because it had seemed an awful place, in contrary it offers some interesting prospects, but Rohan knows that he will have some thinking to do in his consideration. And with the presence of his hosts lingering at his shoulder (figuratively, of course), it is not a decision that he wishes to make with any sort of haste.

He intends to do the opposite, in fact.

No rush, right?

Still, with every step that he takes, it becomes clear that perhaps this had not been the night to embrace the wildness of Helovia. Nature is sure giving him all its untamed glory. A weaker creature might have recoiled at the fierceness of the snow, at the stinging of the wind, and seek shelter in some place warm and comfortable (a wiser creature, perhaps). But Rohan is strong, confident, and he pushes forward—nearly urging the storm with a silent scowl that screams ‘is that all you’ve got?!’ into the blustery recesses of this stormy night.

At last, nature seems to give in. The father north he travels, Rohan notices how the blizzard gradually thins, until it eventually dissipates altogether—leaving to harass others nestled more to the south. His pace slowing to a halt, the Warlander takes a moment to shake vigorously, dispelling the layer of snow that had cloaked his body. It is still impossibly cold, but the hairy stallion finds this much more bearable, the swagger in his step returning as he continues forward, snorting the wet air from his nostrils. It isn’t much farther before something—someone—catches his eye. As dark as her hide is, he likely would have missed her, were it not for the contrast of her mane, tail, and markings.

Purple?

Well, now he’s seen everything!

Flicking his lengthy tail about his flanks, Rohan strides purposefully forward, keen on discovering what sort of genetic strangeness has happened here. “Beautiful night, no?” His deep voice disturbs the frigid chill of Frostfall air, reaching the mare before he comes to face her, standing diagonal to her shoulder. His tone, while broad, is clipped at the end—intent to not linger for long on such pleasantries. “Though I wouldn’t venture much farther south if I were you,” he adds, mock cynicism leaking into the manner of his voice.


notes; you're good:) I'm excited too!
tag; @[Zandora]
“Speech.”