Always drawn to adventure, the stallion’s seemingly innate thirst for exploration and the unknown draws him ever forward. He had departed from the Threshold, leaving the two mares’ sides behind him (sure that Frosty wouldn’t miss his company, although he doesn’t doubt that she’s got a lot more glares to give) in search of—well, what exactly? The Warlander knows the answer well enough, echoing at the back of his mind like an annoying fly buzzing around his ear, stemming from the deepest parts of his heart even though he tries to ignore it.
 
But how long can he keep this up?
 
Surely, he must get tired of running eventually?
 
Too proud to acknowledge the validity of such a fact, the large stallion huffs a strained and exaggerated breath, the length of his long tail slapping against his flanks. It simply can’t be so. Twisting his ears backwards until they hover above the hairy mess of his neck, Rohan strides purposefully forward (towards what particular purpose he has yet to find out himself, but it feels good to march intensely and resolutely forward nonetheless). It isn’t long before he notices the change in scenery—the air darkening and green blooms of spring morphing into something…red. Red?
 
The brindled stallion is still not entirely familiar with the strange wilds of Helovia—despite having wandered through many of the bizarre territories in the season or so that has passed since his unceremonious arrival—but all the same, even he cannot deny that this particular place is…different. Had he simply missed it while passing this way before? Pursing his brown lips, the Warlander wanders forward, swallowing the apprehension in his throat and pressing on as his heartbeat quickens against his chest. Suddenly there is a crackling in the air—a popping like nothing he has heard before—stopping him and narrowing his eyes as he glances about.
 
Rohan sees nothing, but there are sounds in the distance—ugly sounds that rouse memories and feelings to surface and dry his tongue. Leaping forward, he bounds with all the flash and elegance of his Iberian ancestors—a warhorse, proud and majestic (and oh how he wears it well). Finally breaking through the trees, the red land opens up before him, as though the very earth itself holds a festering wound. Here, in this rotten and blistering bruise, lies the battle.
 
He does not need to know the Helovian deity to recognize him—the God’s very presence is powerful, the magnetism in the air pulsing around both him and the most hideous and terrifying creature that Rohan has ever seen. The battle is clear—God against God, divinity against daemon. The Warlander is not a particularly religious character—he could care less to worship his Almighty—but it is the “greater good” that ignites the fight of war in his blood. Helovia is his homeland now, and he won’t see it messed with (plus it might be good to release some pent-up testosterone-induced frustration—yay violence).

Baring his teeth, the stallion charges forward with a snarl ripping from his throat, head lowered and antlers poised as he charges in the direction of the revolting monster.


notes; TEAM TIME GOD WOO
Rohan charges forward, teeth bared and antlers ready, in the general direction of the Rift God...likely will collide with anyone who is opposing him and in his way haha. 
“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.