The black and white mare identifies herself as Artillery, which immediately causes the stallion’s smirk to deepen across his lips. Artillery. It is a fitting name for a fighter, he thinks, a warrior—and while the petite mare doesn’t initially speak warrior to him, perhaps a closer inspection suggests otherwise (and he doesn’t mind in indulging himself in a closer examination).

Maybe it is only because of his height, or an eye so inadvertently practiced, but his careful gaze notes something—a marking? A tattoo?—behind her ear. It doesn’t appear to be of natural origins, but he has quickly learned that such laws of nature are challenged, pushed, and broken in a place like this. He remembers a mare with purple hair and markings across her body…and this doesn’t seem so bad. Exhaling from his nostrils, Rohan decides to keep an open mind. Appearances, it would seem, tell you only as much as you would like to believe.

“Dragon’s Throat, you say?” The dunalino muses, his voice rumbling in his broad chest, so low he is unsure if the other stallion is able to hear it (his thoughts more for himself anyway). The Throat. The name stirs not-so-distant memories of a mare with similar stripes to himself, wings fluttering at her ears and her eyes lit by the glow of fire and hungry for…tea. Of all the herds in Helovia, he has heard the least about this Throat—Dragon’s Throat. The name alone is enough to arouse his interest, the flicker of adrenaline sparking in his chest of a place that could warrant such a title.

What could it possibly be like?

Pursing his lips, Rohan’s green eyes shift sharply to Sacre’s face when he inquires of them—of a home. The Warlander doesn’t try to hold back the short chuckle that chaffs in his throat, the wry mirth twisting across lips and rugged features to alight in his gaze. “Now isn’t that the question of the day?” The stallion’s eyes narrow, but his expression is more humored than critical overall. “Fortunately for you, I have affiliated with no herd myself, although I wouldn’t hesitate in recruiting this lady if I were,” his eyes trail back to Artillery for a long second, giving her a sly wink before he returns his attention to the Dragon’s Throat stallion.

In that short, fleeting moment, words comes trailing into his thoughts—we only accept those of our own kind. The muscles in his jaw flex as he grits his teeth briefly. He admires the painted mare’s mighty wings, and is nearly envious of the freedom they must offer—what it would be like to be able to fly!—and he wonders how any powerful kingdom could be so petty.

But he doesn’t wish to concern himself with that right now.

“I can’t answer for her,” Rohan continues, “but I can give you a firm maybe.” The large stallion chuckles through closed lips, one side of his brow rising in amusement. He doesn’t know what he wants from Helovia, and he doesn’t intend to stop searching through its strange wilds and exciting unknowns—for what, exactly, he has yet to discover. And—sometimes—he likes to keep it that way.


tag; @[Artillery] & @[Sacre]
“Speech.”

ROHAN
don’t get too close, it’s dark inside