rohan
how fickle my heart

The black and purple mare confirms his assumptions to her weather preferences, the smoky chuckle of her voice intertwining with words of poor decisions and humor (to which the Warlander can only agree, letting slip a wry, nearly mocking smile along his lips), and he feels the boundless, feeding pride of his overconfidence swell (invariably) within his breast. However, the dark siren continues with an inquiry of her own, questioning the reasons behind his motives and the circumstances that have found them here. “Never mind about me—my story is not nearly as exciting as yours,” he side-steps her curiosity with a practiced and habitual ease, the broadness of his voice hard beneath the velvet, a silent and immovable warning that guards his petty little secrets.

Fortunately, they do not dwell on this topic for long, allowing the devil’s curiosity to slip from their fingers like the fast, silent pull of silk (and he watches it fall with a withering, commending glare as it shrinks into the abyss). As they continue, the bright green of his eyes settles comfortably on her face, tracing the lines and curves, wandering. So entranced is he—the immoral weakness of a man, willing victim to the seemingly innate whims and wiles of a woman—that the stallion is quite caught off-guard when the mare suddenly lunges at him.

He feels the pressure of her horn at his throat, the pointed tip sharp and threatening against the vulnerable, beating flesh of his skin. He swallows against it, the flash of surprise dwindling quickly from his features and fading into a more amused, cynical expression. “I don’t question you, sweetheart,” his tone is hard and suspicious, although there is a light in his eye that clings to his play—this game that they dance with each other—and he is ever so eager to continue their wily designs. She drags the crown of her weapon further down his body, and he leans into it with a simpering smile, driven by curiosity and the adrenaline that fires his veins.

Only when she pulls away does Rohan feel his chest expand and his lungs fill again with a full breath of the night’s chilled air. From beneath the shadow of his rugged brow he watches her, the movement of her lips and the glint of his eyes (not much different than his own), his crooked smirk deepening with her expressed desire to be his guest. “Careful, dear mare, you might just get what you wish for—and then you would find more…menacing points aimed at the flesh of your vulnerabilities,” the pun is laid and open in its intent, playful and unrepentant in his roguish antics. He is (usually) hardly one to beat around the bush, after all—why not lay it all out there?

“Playing, of course—but hard to get?” The Warlander muses, his green eyes twinkling in his mischief, “Perhaps that is only in the discretion of the participant.” He gives her a quick, clever wink and chuckles deeply, the length of his cream-colored tail whipping through the frozen air to slap against his hairy flanks. Sometimes the antlered stallion likes to think of himself as a hard catch, a challenge, but it isn’t so—he all but crumbles in face of slithering, sultry beauty, if only to bring them down with him. If nothing else, he is a fine, impressive catch—and that knowledge is well enough to hold the weight of his swollen confidence.

His fluted ears flick towards the black and purple unicorn as she ponders his name, praising its handsomeness. His gives a short nod of his head, the thick muscles of his neck arching and his lips pursing in pleasure. “Is it, isn’t it?” Indeed—how fitting Rohan is without Kaerji, cut from the ties of his heritage and his blood. He likes to tell himself he is free. Is this not freedom, after all? Mingling with a pretty lady in the dark hours of the night, swathed in nothing but their double-edged words and sultry desires.

“Zandora,” Rohan continues, taking a short moment to ponder her name for himself, tasting it against his tongue and provoking another smile from his brown lips. “I don’t suppose you could afford a little more…drifting,” he doesn’t choose his words on impulse, snatching them from her lips and holding onto that train of thought. Shifting his weight forward, he reaches and tilts his head to run his antlers across her chest and stomach, their breadth large and their points sharp, grazing the skin beneath her coat with a measured, deliberate stroke. “I do fancy the thrill of unpredictability myself,” his says with a calculated sense of humor and suggestiveness, arching his neck so that his antlers tilt and are replaced by his lips at her neck. “Impulsive, are you?”


notes; sorry for the wait (again =X)
tag; Zandora
“Speech.”