rohan
how fickle my heart

Green eyes linger on the large bay stallion, fluted ears pricked forward as he waits for his host’s reply to his…less-than-enthused sentiments. While not usually a despairing character, Rohan does have his brooding moments—and his opinions are, more often than not, too skeptical for his own good. It is all for good fun, really (at least on his end). It is quite entertaining to push life to edge, to poke the bear, so to speak. It is not surprising that many creatures do not share his brazen boldness.

Perhaps, were his senses not fascinated with strange sights and new prospects, he would have caught the slight hardening of Thor’s expression, but the Warlander is far too amused with his curt response to notice the fleeting shift in communication. Rohan continues blithely, allowing only a breath to settle before a wry smirk skews brown lips, the expression reaching into his gaze. “Your confidence is heartening, friend,” there is a droll chuckle in his broad voice—meant to jest rather than mock, but there is a chance that Thor would not be able to distinguish the difference.

Flicking his tail as his deep voice fades into the frosty light of dusk, Rohan’s attention shifts with the snapping of a twig and the whisper of rustled leaves that sigh of the arrival of someone new. The Warlander’s nostrils curl, his eyes briefly narrowing a fraction as they settle on the spotted stranger. Mauja. He is regal, but not quite imposing. Instinctively Rohan arches his thick neck, chest broadening with the pride of any testosterone-ridden creature, but there is curiosity that softens the rugged lines of his face. “My name is Rohan,” the antlered stallion announces, inclining his head in a small, offhand nod.

When his gaze returns to its normal degree, it finds another figure among them. Physically, this one is noticeably more…daunting, perhaps—a true beast, surely. For a moment, Rohan is reminded of his father, a belligerent and selfish bastard—militaristic, and his body flashes with heat before it grows cold with the bile on his tongue. Arlo Kaerji is not the type of vermin he wishes to be reminded of.

Fortunately, the reminder is fleeting when the Friesian opens his lips. Although the black’s words are casual, there is a distinct wittiness about them that immediately brings a smirk about Rohan’s features. He appreciates such dry humor (not to mention, it is nothing like his dastardly father). “Not quite, I’m afraid—Thor managed to sweet talk me from the Threshold, but it would seem the wanderlust of my heart isn’t as easily persuaded,” he purses his brown lips, glancing temporarily to the draft, “I’ll admit, it isn’t often I’m swayed away from prettier faces.” He chuckles lowly, amused by himself.

His attention flickering to Mauja before returning to the Friesian, one side of Rohan’s brow rises. “And might I suggest not having a ruin of shards at your borders…it is not necessarily ‘welcoming’ to guests when their skin is threatened to be sheared from their bodies. Unless that is your way of weeding them out,” the Warlander shrugs, a demure simper playing across the line of his mouth, “to each their own, I suppose.”


notes; heh this guy x]
tag; @[Thor], @[Torleik], & @[Mauja]
“Speech.”