rohan
how fickle my heart

The mare’s wandering gaze does not go unnoticed. The antlered stallion seems to puff out beneath her eye, like a bird would when trying to impress a mate—proud, bold, and alluring. Not that he feels like he needs to impress her—the young hairy unicorn has many things to learn in this strange and wild world, but self-esteem certainly isn’t one of them—but he does love to feel flattered by a mare’s sensual, animalistic desires. Rohan is not expertly practiced in the art of reading others, deciphering their face and picking it part to expose their thoughts, but he understands enough to know that there seems to be no disappointment in her gaze. If there is desire though, he hopes to soon find out.

She speaks to him, drawing his green gaze from the pleasing curves of her thighs and body and back to her face—the stark purple of her eyes intense and piercing despite their lack of a pupil (or perhaps that only sharpens the effect?) in any case, the dunalino finds himself under scrutiny—something he is not entirely opposed of. One side of his brow rises amusingly at her comment, his fluted ears tilting forward with the sound of her subdued laughter. His low chuckle joins hers, but it is short and soon gives way to the rougher tones of his voice.

“Not your forte?” The Warlander muses, flicking the dark cream of his thick tail around his flanks before he continues. “Then how ironic that we should find ourselves here, in this wasteland of ice and snow. I would have thought to find you in the southernmost parts of Helovia this time of the year,” the brightness of his eyes catch the glistening light of the stars overhead, the moon’s soft glow framing his rugged features and enhancing them in sharp, bold lines, “Surely it would be more to your liking?”

His tone lilts in a way that doesn’t demand an answer, although his ears are trained should she wish to give him one. It is merely observations that he makes, not an interrogation—what she wishes to inflict upon herself is her own business. He could hardly be less bothered.

The purple and black mare continues, enticing another chuckle from the depths of the stallion’s chest, this one heartier than before. “I would not doubt your capability, sweetheart, but your sensibility,” he eyes her with a cynical smirk twisting his dark lips, “still, be my guest if you dare to brave it—especially given your apparent aversion for snow.” His voice is pointed as it drawls to a lazy and gradual close, his eyes narrowing briefly before he draws back. Whatever the case may be, the Warlander would certainly enjoy the view should she decide to march away from him and into the colder clutches of winter. He considers it a win-win situation either way.

“‘Such a stallion’?” Rohan repeats wittily, “Well my dear, I suppose it depends on what that particular description entails,” his wry smirk deepens, one side of his brow rising as his eyes question her with enquiries of mirth and amusement. From his initial approach, the subtle shift in the mare’s demeanor had not missed his attention. From rigid ice she seems to melt, sultry voice of satin and barbs wrapping his mind in hidden weapons; and he is more than ready to play her little game.

Arching the thick muscle of his neck, the Warlander simpers with mischievous glee. “My name is Rohan,” he concedes, announcing himself into the dark wilderness like the proud vagabond he has become, “And what is yours, lovely? I don’t suppose you would leave that to the wiles of my imagination.” He chuckles, eyes dancing with the promise of play. Of course, he could draw conclusions perfectly well himself—beautiful and fantastical conclusions—but wouldn’t it be more fun if she were to play along with him?


notes; so so sorry for the lateness! At least I seem to have more muse than I thought I would heh (tagging because it's only been forever xD)
tag; @[Zandora]
“Speech.”