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

It doesn’t take much to catch the other stallion’s attention. He is quick to sit himself up, thick, twisted horn tilting back as he looks up to meet the Warlander’s eye. Rohan gives a short bark of a chuckle in response to his mention of appearances, too weary and irritable by this blasted headache to do much more of an animated response (his head far too sensitive to do his usual eye roll and rumbling laughter). “You and me both,” the antlered stallion muses, pursing his brown lips almost in a hum of musings. Truly, he is quite confident in his own skin, not doubting his charm or appearance—they’ve proved themselves useful on more than one occasion (because he likes to think positive).

Rohan leans the weight of his body backwards when the stallion heaves suddenly to his feet (he doesn’t envy him of the wave of pain that rushes to his head, judging by his expression), preferring to not physically move his muscles if he doesn’t have to. Fluted ears tilt back leisurely, his green eyes following the hefty beast as he rises—and rises and rises. Now the Warlander has seen a fair amount of massive equines, some perhaps even taller than this one, but whether it’s because it’s been so long, or the slightest case of delirium that clouds his throbbing mind at this point, he finds himself nearly aghast at the stallion’s height. He’s enormous!

“We’re a right sad lot.”

The tiger-striped stallion huffs out a gruff breath, flicking the thick length of his tail around his lower hocks. “And you are a mammoth, my friend. You’re huge,” like the horned stallion’s, Rohan’s voice is meant to be laced with amusement, humor even, though little actually manages to change the inflection of his monotone speech. There’s just too much to focus on…his brain can’t handle it right now, and he’s certainly not going to test it.

The mammoth introduces himself as Tembovu then—which does manage to stir the faintest amount of recognition in the pulsing haze of his mind—although it is the fact that Tembovu recognizes him that catches most of his attention. Really? He wants to question him, somehow amused by the idea. Rohan could be a better herd member, he knows; he hasn’t been around as some of the others, or as involved as they have been—but hey, he could be a lot worse too, right? At least he’s not stirring up trouble somewhere. Not intentionally, anyway (most of the time).

“Aha—yes,” he responds with a hot breath, glancing sourly at his seared flanks, “Its damn blood. Blasted liquid was like acid and had no trouble leaving its mark on me.” The antlered stallion exhales heavily from his nostrils, looking back to Tembovu by the time he’s finished speaking. “Although I’d have to say it’s the least of my troubles at this point,” he closes his eyes in a long blink, clenching his jaw against the throbbing, incessant pain that thrums at the base of his skull, a heavy drum of pain and mockery. The Rift’s final laugh—only he doesn’t find it so funny. Would it have been better for them all if the Gods had just left everything alone?

Not wanting to entertain that particular thought process much more, Rohan opens his eyes a little bit, still narrowed against Tallsun’s blinding heat. “Glazier…is that the one that creates stuff?” He’s still familiarizing himself with Helovia’s ranks, as well as the Edge’s special lingo for everything (although every herd seems to have something of the same nature). “I’m a Huskarl, a warrior,” he pauses, shifting his weight a little bit to keep his hips from aching. “How long have you lived there?”


“Speech.”

rohan