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

What the hell.

He feels like—

Death.

His head throbs, his heartbeat pounding like a war drum in his ears—loud, echoing, and constant. The pressure makes him feel as though his skull is going to burst, any sudden movement sending him into a dizzying whirl of pain. His abdomen is bloated and terribly uncomfortable, not helped by the seared flesh of his flanks, where the Rift God’s acid blood had spilled onto him. Damn beast. His whole body feels tender, as if a single touch would send him crumpling to the ground (but he wouldn’t, because he’s a man). He suffers silently, but certainly not peacefully.

Perhaps he had been heading back towards the Edge, or perhaps his body had unconsciously led him here. He is already surrounded by the purple clusters of grass before the Warlander takes notice of where he is. Huffing a groan and tipping back his ears, he comes to a slow halt. The last time he had been here, he had not been alone…and it hadn’t been a particularly pleasant experience either. There had been death…yes. His eyes fall on the tree, recognizable by the mound at its roots, the earth upturned only weeks prior. The memory flashes before him—of the little black filly, far too quiet, and her mother.

Her beautiful, grieving mother.

It had nearly been an out of body experience for him, as uncomfortable as he is with things like emotions (the tender kind) and comfort, but he doesn’t regret the experience. The petite brown mare had needed him, and he was there for her. He has not seen her since then, when he had left her alone at her Basin’s borders, her pretty little face twisted in frustration that he wouldn’t join her inside. Tough love, baby.

Movement eventually draws the stallion’s attention away from the flowered tree, a flailing of some kind—he catches legs darting above the grasses, connected to what seems to be a heaping mound. His initial reaction is to scowl and turn away (the pain of his body igniting his temper and shortening his patience), but standing there, he soon realizes that walking away will likely take more effort than it would to saunter the few yards forward. His sides expanding in a dramatic huff of breath, Rohan shakes out his mane (and immediately regrets it, as the motion and weight of his antlers agitates his already throbbing head, and causes a fresh trickle of blood to stream from his ears) before forcing himself to move.

It doesn’t take long for the Warlander to recognize the stranger—or at least, recognize what he can see of him. It is a stallion—have they been formerly introduced?—that he has noticed a time or two lurking around the Edge. Of course, Rohan hasn’t been the most dynamic herd member himself, so his memory could be playing with him (it’s a battle that he has no intention of fighting now). Settling a safe distance away from the flailing hooves, his hips dip sharply as he rests a hind leg, his other hip angling awkwardly as he favors his whole hind end—almost like he’s going to crow hop.

But of course he wouldn’t dream of that right now.

“Well you look like shit,” his deep voice broadens in a witty monotone, noticing the overall apparent discomfort of the stallion—judging by the dark stains below his ears, Rohan would bet that they’ve both been infected by this Flats parasite. Poor bastard. “What a couple pieces of eye candy we are,” there is a leak of humor in his voice, even if the rugged lines of his face remain impassive, save for the light in his eye. With bleeding ears, twisting gut, and seared flanks, not to mention the throbbing pain throughout his entire body, he feels more confident than ever! Breathing out a sigh from his nostrils, he looks down at the stallion. “My name is Rohan, of the World’s Edge—I believe I’ve seen you there before?” He squints his eyes against the sun’s light, cursing its brightness.


notes; Yay muse!
“Speech.”

rohan