He has nearly come full circle, it would seem.

Of course, a true “full circle” would be returning to Helovia’s Threshold once again, or perhaps even returning to World’s Edge, but the antlered stallion doesn’t bother himself to dwell on the technicalities—preferring to go the more poignant, more melodramatic route, if you will. Coming full circle—it just sounds fitting. Chasing circles, following your feet with hardly a thought for the future, taking life a day at a time…it is all fitting for Rohan, conforming himself to title of wanderer that he has forced himself to become.

He doesn’t know what he wants, which his heart both festers and delights in. If there is nothing to desire, then there is nothing to hold him back, nothing to distract him from the wild spontaneity of life. But at times the unknown becomes too vast, too mysterious, and he feels himself drowning in the blackness, without a purpose to anchor him. Lately, he feels himself wrapped up more often in the latter of the two, but not wanting to dwell on the responsibility he quickly brushes it off, abusing his restlessness and simply heading in no particular direction…merely forward. Moving.

It is quite by accident that the antlered stallion stumbles upon the ancient pavilion once again, its olden stone walls and decorated roof swathed in a heavier blanket of white than when he had first seen it at the beginning of the season. Truly, Frostfall has not been merciful in her grasp these last weeks. The unicorn draws to a slow halt before the building, proud head lifting and his green eyes peering intently through the unruliness of his forelock, his gaze drifting lazily along its timeworn architecture—no less extraordinary for its age. The structures in Etherim are more rugged than this, raw, imposing, and magnificent, but not nearly as intricate.

A frozen breeze drifts through the snow-laden forest, dancing with the snowflakes and eventually finding the Warlander as he stands there before the Rotunda, sending a shiver rippling down his spine when the cold twists beneath his hairy coat and bites icily at his skin. Rohan flicks his thick tail sharply against his muscled flanks, shaking out his mane before winter’s frost bids him to move. It is only then that he notices the figure standing behind the stone pillars—her natural color having kept her from his idle eye before now.

His brown lips pursing thoughtfully, Rohan circles around to the pavilion’s entrance, glancing into the wood around him before lifting his hooves to the stone platform and stepping inside. “Not a bad place to withstand the weather,” his broad voice rumbles from his thick chest, his neck arching as he inspects the mare from beneath his heavy brow, coming to stand roughly at her shoulder, “not bad company either.” A crooked smirk twists his lips and his eyes glisten with his usual impishness.

It is an assumption, of course—for all he knows, this damsel before him could be no damsel at all, but a witch (or worse). Still, he had never been one to balk at the game; only one way to find out.


notes; I wasn't sure where Romul was, so I didn't mention him x]
tag; @[Essetia]
“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.