living like we're
     r e n e g a d e s

The stallion’s muscles are coiled, taught, and flexing beneath his hairy skin, eyeing this thick-headed brute with a contentious glare, his head snaking threateningly to the point of his shoulders. The last thing that Rohan wants to do right now is talk. He is all too often an impulsive and reckless character, habitually following the hunch of his gut and intuition of his inner drives on first instinct, and leaving the consequences to work themselves out at a later point. It has seemed to work out relatively well for him in the past, and right now, the fire and tension in his muscles scream at him to just—attack. Fight and conquer this buffoon of an opponent.

With his brown lips curling into a derisive sneer, the Warlander scoffs openly and heartily at the imbecile’s—Misael’s—comments. “I wouldn’t listen anyway—” the green of his eyes narrow aggressively, and he allows an air of haughtiness to leak into his carriage as he flaunts his crude honesty, his scathing sneer deepening before he continues, “I find that I generally have little patience for rotten miscreants like yourself.” Rohan’s dark-rimmed ears flatten further against the back of his neck before he gives a dismissive toss of his head, the unruly billows of his thick hair framing his rugged features, and he thrusts his jaw boastfully toward the other male.

“But you do owe an explanation to her!” The sharp points of his antlers tilt roughly in the brown mare’s direction somewhere behind him, the words seething like venom across Rohan’s tongue as they are spit from his lips. He doesn’t want to see this brutish fool anywhere near Enna (Rohan does not yet understand what this is, this feeling, this drive, other than protection—he cannot yet fathom from what depths of his heart and soul such efforts originate, propelling every fiber of his being with a burning, reckless, and nearly unexplainable need to guard and defend and keep), but he forces himself to compromise that, perhaps, she deserves it herself.

The antlered stallion breathes heavily from his nostrils, green eyes so fixated on the other male that he nearly misses his name falling from the mare’s lips, one of his ears rising in a small response. The broad skin of his shoulder twitches at her touch, a moment passing before he is able to tear his eyes away to look at her, knowing already what he will see there, and rebelling against it. No, his mind tells her, tells himself, begging her to not do this. He doesn’t back down—he couldn’t back down—but he allows the little mare to step around him, breaching the buffer that he had set for her, and prays silently that she will not suffer for it.

However, his worry is quickly abated when she speaks—sparks igniting into fire as they flash from her tongue, creating an inferno that—quite plainly—swells Rohan’s chest with pride. Good for her. It isn’t necessarily the physical retribution that Rohan craves, but even so, he had not expected Enna to explode so boldly—so fiercely.

Unfortunately, her fires seemed to have kindled others—far more dangerous flames.

Rohan’s hard gaze narrows once more as he eyes the foolish twit, suspicion lacing into his expression when the animal moves. “NO—!” He roars furiously, pivoting on muscled flanks and charging, but he is not fast enough. Pale hooves dig into the soft earth as his motion is suddenly ceased, muscles clenching violently in his shoulders, anger and indignation combusting across his entire body to flare treacherously in his eyes. “Drop her,” the Warlander’s voice drops to a dangerous hiss, an open threat, his eyes never leaving the other stallion’s face as he dangles Quinn’s tiny, frail body from his teeth. Rohan does not care to hear any more from this pitiful wretch—there will be no apologies, no forgiveness, and no mercies. He is not a character of morality, and he cares little for manners.

This bastard deserves nothing.

The moment he sees the fragile filly’s body fall from the brute’s clutches, the antlered stallion is on the move. He thrusts his large body forward, lunging for the colorful buffoon with wild eyes and bared, hungry teeth. “Get out of here you filthy bastard!” Rohan snarls viciously, snapping his jaws together with a brutal growl. He would likely hunt down such a dastardly creature, but there are more pressing matters that cling to his attention. He will have his time.

Forcing himself to a halt and snorting contemptuously at the receding figure, the Warlander turns back around, returning at a trot to the little brown mare with sweeping strides. “If I ever see his gaudy, pathetic ass near you again, I’ll beat it into the ground,” he mutters this more for himself than for her, but it is a promise all the same, and he intends to keep it. Clenching his jaw together in his effort to “cool down,” Rohan breathes slowly and closes his eyes in a long blink before searching for Enna’s gaze. “Are you alright?” There is a hardness that lingers within him, a roughness that makes his question more clipped than intended. Attempting to soften, he lowers his head to hers. “I’m sorry Enna, you shouldn’t have had to endure that, especially now…” his deep voice trails into silence, knowing that there isn’t much more than can be said; it isn’t him that needs to atone for the affliction against her, after all.

Pausing for a long moment, Rohan presses his nose gently to hers, far more comfortable to comfort her this way than with words. However, there comes a point when he can no longer ignore the question that bites at him, stinging (and for what? Why? Why should it matter?) at the forefront of his mind. Releasing a long and weighted breath, he pulls back from her slightly. “Who was he?” To you.


“Speech.”

rohan