All hail the outlaws

Unlike most nights, the large stallion has slept soundly through the midnight hours. Granted, he hadn’t actually settled down to rest until long after the sun had slipped beneath the horizon, but for once in a long, long while, he had not been haunted in the soft darkness behind his eyelids. The sweat that dampens the fleshy skin at his joints has not been roused from hours of tossing, turning, and cursing—but rather by the simple warmth of the season that his thick, hairy body has not been built for. For once in a long, long while, the antlered warrior does not glare from beneath his heavy brow with bleary, bloodshot eyes; he almost feels—

—good.
(Dare he hope this might last?)

With his mind momentarily unburdened by the guilt, and pain, and anger that have lately wracked him so savagely (perhaps undoubtedly a sick and selfish idea in itself, considering the child and woman that he now bars from his ego-infested mind) the Warlander dares to hold his head up, green eyes catching the light that filters through thin, swirling mists.

Absentmindedly following a path that his body has worn with months of patrol, Rohan ventures towards the land’s borders. He feels almost high with this freedom (and, like a drug, knowing its temporary supply but indulging and reveling nonetheless), his liberated focus is distracted easily by the faint, steady sounds of—shattering? With dark-rimmed ears flicking back before he alters his direction, the large stallion follows the source of the distant clamor. Of course, the warrior in him is awakened and called to arms by this unexpected surprise, but as he draws closer, it becomes clear this is nothing more than friendly fire.

Breaking into the appropriate clearing, he is greeted by an unpredicted sight—although, he really shouldn’t be surprised, should he? As patrons for the Moon Goddess, their very herd revolves around glass. And while he knows little detail about their herd quest, it would only make sense that glass would be involved somehow. Needing no more excuse, Rohan eyes the closes target, charging at it, muscled haunches dipping low to the grass when he suddenly slides to a stop. Nostrils flaring, he bows his neck, and presses the tines of his antlers against the smooth, crystal surface.

The sound is horrid (nails-across-a-chalkboard type of torture). Stepping back with brown lips pursing, the Warlander inspects the clear gouges, noting the varying depth; perhaps a thinner target would shatter beneath such an attack, but personally he prefers a more direct and no-nonsense route. Leaning back on his haunches, the stallion rises into a half-rear, bowing his neck once more before he plunges forward. Beneath the force of his assault, the glass target crumbles easily, shards of glass splintering in a most satisfying display.

Shaking his head to free his long forelock of any stray fragments, Rohan looks at the target, now reduced to a mere heap of pulverized shards. A crooked smile manages to creep along his whiskery muzzle, cutting sharply across his rugged features.


notes; I apologize if I misinterpreted anything; I admit I really only read the first two posts x3
“Speech.”

rohan

Lost souls in revelry, Running wild and running free.