The stallion nods his antlered head a little when the golden mare speaks of the violent battles, continuing to explain that the blood she wears is from a friend. “I see—I am sorry for your grief,” his deep voice rumbles to mirror her lowered tone, green eyes lingering on her face even as she glances away. Of course, his apology is only half heartfelt. Not that he would wish her any pain, but the sorrow she carries is no fault of his own, and he feels no obligation or duty to remedy wrongs that are not his doing. That being said, he intends to make the most of this unexpected encounter—and how could he possibly do that when she is mourning?

Brown lips purse in his quiet musings, his thoughts filling the short moments of silence before Rexanna looks back to him. She seems to be familiar with the Edge—or at least tales of it. Something between a smirk and a smile plays across the line of Rohan’s lips, and he glances downwards before speaking, peering at her from beneath the shadow of his brow. “It is a beautiful place, it has done me well thus far,” he speaks flippantly, his mind quickly moving on to other things, and his playful smile deepens. “Perhaps you could join me one day?” The Warlander laughs deeply, hardly serious as his eyes dance in mischief.

Naturally, if he had any idea of the reality that plagues such words, Rohan would not be so lighthearted. While undoubtedly impish and unattached in nature, he is not a monster (on most days), and even he realizes that it is not in his best interests to slight a superior he actually respects. As it is, the Warlander is entirely ignorant to the painful details, blissfully unaware and free to frolic in his obliviousness.

Tipping his ears forward when Rexanna continues, the stallion shifts his weight a little, the tight, scabbed skin across his flanks reminding him of the truth of her final statement. He sighs heavily, brown nostrils curling and his thick neck arching as he lowers his head slightly. “I understand. The beauty of battle doesn’t come without its ugliness; it has its own price to demand from each of us,” spoken like a true warrior. Of course, Rohan’s understanding is likely a bit different from the mare’s—his spirits are just as lifted by battle as they are dampened, even if the reality has hit him differently than he’d expected.

“I’ve suffered from the Rift’s disease as well—two, actually,” he continues with a coltish scowl, “First those horrid boils from the Blood Falls, and then the ghastly headache from the Flats; probably the most miserable experience of my life.” The stallion shakes his head, remembering how painful the weight of his antlers had been—for once in his life, their impressive size had been a curse rather than a blessing. Still, his offhanded, joking words are not true. Rohan has experienced far greater misery—the slaughtering of his brother, the death of his grandfather, his hero, the ghastly reign of his father—but he is not one to willingly face the gravity of these situations. Better to cast it aside, and leave it to mourn at another time.

Doing just that with a flick of his long tail, the Warlander shifts closer to the golden mare, searching to meet her gaze. “What position do you hold?” He tilts his head in dramatized curiosity, caring more to close the distance between them, trailing along his words as they leave his lips. “I don’t recall you mentioning that in our last meeting,” a crooked smile softens his lips, his eyes still holding their light of mischief. Hovering close enough to touch, he waits, hoping to bait and bring out again the wily temptress of his memories.


notes; I'm so sorry for your wait!
“Speech.”

     RUN AWAY WITH ME
lost souls and reverie; running wild and running free.