lend me your hand and we’ll conquer them all,
but lend me your heart—

From the World’s Edge the stallion had wandered, his patrol of the foggy borders extending to breach out past his forested herd land, long legs carrying him at a measured two-beat rhythm. The miles have passed steadily beneath pale hooves, his eyes seemingly glazed over while thought obscures vision, and his body becomes a numbed and hollowed harbor for these musings. It isn’t until the crystal splash of water that he is roused from his daze, icy droplets spraying upwards to dampen his thick hide while he crosses the shallow stream of the—

—the Thistle Meadow.

Of course it would be here (of all places!) that he would wander to.

The Warlander’s lips twist into an irritable scowl. His mind urges him to turn—to run—but his body does not move; he is frozen, trapped, with his green eyes left drifting over the familiar landscape. Invariably his attention is drawn to that tree, trailing down the naked branches to the dark trunk, following the grain of the bark to its roots—and, ultimately, to the body that rests beneath them. Rohan remembers digging away at the ground, soft with the spring dew, to shape the earthen grave; he remembers her face, her tears, the way her lashes had fluttered, and her lips had trembled…

Huffing a growl, he shakes his antlered head, looking pointedly away from that core of memories; he mustn’t dwell on them now. He can’t.

It is the voice of a stranger that delivers him, distracts him with an anchor of diversion, and Rohan clings to it readily. Forcing his thoughts to flee behind him (and praying that they will die there), the Warlander follows the stranger’s trail. Fortunately, the winged stallion is not hard to locate, and it isn’t long before Rohan finds himself creeping behind his new opponent. Not caring to evaluate or think much through anything now, he charges suddenly forward. Closing the distance between them, he swings his head to the side as he comes up behind the other and runs past Ilios’ right, the points of his antlers seeking to pierce, graze, or lacerate flesh.

Rohan does not stop his momentum until he has passed Ilios, the length of his tail brushing the ground as he spins to face the other stallion directly. “I’ll be happy to oblige,” he says with a roguish twist of his lips, “my name is Rohan.”


“Speech.”
Attack: 1/3
WC: 400
Summary: Rohan runs up behind Ilios and swings his antlers while he keeps running, hoping to graze the skin along Ilios' right side.

AND I’LL JUST LET YOU FALL.

rohan