Can’t feel anything—when will I learn?

I push it down, push it down.

Somehow the mammoth’s call manages to rouse the antlered stallion, the deep bellow seeping through snow and slumber to rumble in his ears. Dark lashes flutter before the green of his eyes peeks through, squinting against the light of day, blaring and unkind as the brightness reflects off the frozen ground. Grumbling some half-hearted profanities to himself, he manages to scrape together the will to move, to rise. The soft, packed snow that had gathered over his body crumbles with his movements, long legs stretching before fighting the stiffness of his muscles, pushing his hairy body lazily from the ground.

Once he is standing steadily enough on his hooves, Rohan shakes the white from his back, cursing when the movement agitates his—suddenly—throbbing head. Ah, yes—his skull feels like it might just explode from the pressure pushing at his skull, his eyes, his brain. It is an unforgiving weight, highlighting every beat of his heart with a painful pulse of his body, and abruptly, all the Warlander wants to do is give into the darkness once again.

Last night is a blur—a mind numbing haze of some sort of delicacy that he had stumbled across in his patrol of the borders. He has no idea what it had been, or what it’s called, and he doesn’t care—all he knows is that it had made him feel good. Free. Even if only for a few hours, temporarily relieved of the grief, anger, and confusion that has wracked him mercilessly these past months. But he seems to be suffering the after effects now…clutched in the grips of some sort of hangover. Ah well—it wouldn’t be his first. Rohan had, on multiple occasions, attended to his ‘princely duties’ in a less-than-sober state of mind.

He can handle this.

Swearing to himself, the antlered stallion lowers his head, thick neck arching naturally, and saunters towards the cliff’s edge. Considering the threads of respect that he holds for his King (and his Queen, even if largely in admiration of some fine piece of ass), Rohan does his best to not look so…hungover, by the time he arrives. Settling beneath the shade of one of the trees, he is able to open his eyes to an almost-normal degree, and manages to raise his head to a respectable position. It can’t be helped that his natural roughness manliness gives him more of a rugged appeal, especially in the height of winter, when his coat is its thickest, but he has done his best.

Directing a subtle nod to the two leaders, the Warlander’s attention wanders idly over the rest of the gathering. It seems to be smaller than the last (although his memory is quite possibly—most likely—foggy at this point, so who can tell), and he is mildly surprised at how many faces he doesn’t recognize. Swishing his long tail around his lower legs, Rohan makes himself comfortable, gritting his jaw against the aching of his muscles.


notes; So...hungover Rohan x_x
“Speech.”

rohan