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

The black temptress continues to play with him, and it is only willingly that he steps into her trap—but not without spinning a web of his own. As a testosterone-driven stallion, Rohan cannot hope to ignore the wiles of women (especially women such as this one), but he doesn’t want to. For every slinking smirk she gives, for every sensual sway of her hips, for every wicked flicker in her eye, he reveals in the pleasure that sparks across his skin. How can there only be one champion, when neither feels a loss? As far as he concerned, as far as he is willing to admit, they are both victors in this carnal game.

His green eyes watch her as she moves, tracing hungrily along the lines of her sleek body, his skin twitching at the sharp touch of her tail. The Warlander does not attempt to hide his appraisal (as he would with some other mares) because it is clear that this little minx wouldn’t mind his appreciation in the slightest. Matching her smirk with an impish twist of his own lips, Rohan closes the distance between them eagerly. Lingering at her shoulder, dark-rimmed ears twist at her voice, and a low, wry chuckle rumbles from his chest.

She would be from the Basin.

Sialia, Rexanna, Zandora—Enna. Now Rhea. They grow some sexy damsels in those snowy mountains, don’t they? Rohan can’t seem to escape them (although he’d never want to) but it has him considering joining the dark North at last. Perhaps he’s run from it long enough. But the moment is fleeting—at least at this point, he is satisfied in drawing the vixens from their place in the peaks, content enough at his home in the Edge.

Lifting his eyes to the mare’s, Rohan’s` smirk deepens. “And a nice little tidbit it is,” he chuckles dryly, tossing the length of his unruly forelock from his gaze. Shifting his large weight, he doesn’t allow distance to be lost between them, unwilling to give up what he’s already gained. His muscled neck remains arched, whiskery muzzle hovering at her shoulder. With a warm breath ruffling across the feathers at her joint, the stallion’s eyes wander momentarily at the mention of the battle. The memories both excite and depress him (mostly the former, as unexperienced as he is in the true heartbreak of bloodshed), but he manages to keep himself largely composed.

“Yes—I stumbled upon each of the four God battles, and defended Helovia with the rest of them,” he huffs melodramatically, pursing his lips. As valiant and as strong as he had felt, Rohan can’t deny how measured it had all seemed—which brings him to question the Helovian Gods and their intentions. He doesn’t know enough to form an exact opinion, but they haven’t necessarily impressed him thus far. “The Rift fought viciously, although this is from some bastard’s thick-headed dragon,” the Warlander continues, gesturing curtly to the mostly-healed scabs across his upper flanks and hips.

His eyes skirting again across Rhea’s figure, he takes note of her bloody wounds, recognizing well the seared, hot flesh. “I daresay you have suffered a similar fate, darling,” he casts her a short glance, lips curling into a naughty grin, “let me see if I can ease any of your frustration for you.” Reaching deliberately forward, Rohan presses his muzzle against her lower neck. He idles there for a moment, breathing her in and feeling her skin, before rubbing gently, scrubbing off the blood that has caked to her coat.


notes; sorry for the wait! =o
“Speech.”

rohan