He has nearly come full circle, it would seem.

Of course, a true “full circle” would be returning to Helovia’s Threshold once again, or perhaps even returning to World’s Edge, but the antlered stallion doesn’t bother himself to dwell on the technicalities—preferring to go the more poignant, more melodramatic route, if you will. Coming full circle—it just sounds fitting. Chasing circles, following your feet with hardly a thought for the future, taking life a day at a time…it is all fitting for Rohan, conforming himself to title of wanderer that he has forced himself to become.

He doesn’t know what he wants, which his heart both festers and delights in. If there is nothing to desire, then there is nothing to hold him back, nothing to distract him from the wild spontaneity of life. But at times the unknown becomes too vast, too mysterious, and he feels himself drowning in the blackness, without a purpose to anchor him. Lately, he feels himself wrapped up more often in the latter of the two, but not wanting to dwell on the responsibility he quickly brushes it off, abusing his restlessness and simply heading in no particular direction…merely forward. Moving.

It is quite by accident that the antlered stallion stumbles upon the ancient pavilion once again, its olden stone walls and decorated roof swathed in a heavier blanket of white than when he had first seen it at the beginning of the season. Truly, Frostfall has not been merciful in her grasp these last weeks. The unicorn draws to a slow halt before the building, proud head lifting and his green eyes peering intently through the unruliness of his forelock, his gaze drifting lazily along its timeworn architecture—no less extraordinary for its age. The structures in Etherim are more rugged than this, raw, imposing, and magnificent, but not nearly as intricate.

A frozen breeze drifts through the snow-laden forest, dancing with the snowflakes and eventually finding the Warlander as he stands there before the Rotunda, sending a shiver rippling down his spine when the cold twists beneath his hairy coat and bites icily at his skin. Rohan flicks his thick tail sharply against his muscled flanks, shaking out his mane before winter’s frost bids him to move. It is only then that he notices the figure standing behind the stone pillars—her natural color having kept her from his idle eye before now.

His brown lips pursing thoughtfully, Rohan circles around to the pavilion’s entrance, glancing into the wood around him before lifting his hooves to the stone platform and stepping inside. “Not a bad place to withstand the weather,” his broad voice rumbles from his thick chest, his neck arching as he inspects the mare from beneath his heavy brow, coming to stand roughly at her shoulder, “not bad company either.” A crooked smirk twists his lips and his eyes glisten with his usual impishness.

It is an assumption, of course—for all he knows, this damsel before him could be no damsel at all, but a witch (or worse). Still, he had never been one to balk at the game; only one way to find out.


notes; I wasn't sure where Romul was, so I didn't mention him x]
tag; @[Essetia]
“Speech.”

Lend me your hand and we’ll conquer them all,

but lend me your heart and I’ll just let you fall.

Lend me your eyes I can change what you see,

but your soul you must keep,

t o t a l l y f r e e.

The antlered stallion recognizes nothing beneath the mare’s soft, bashful smile. Like any young, testosterone-induced male, he takes only the surface of her actions—the clever coyness that tempers her white eyes, the modest tucking of her head—and snatches it all in his own self-righteousness.

Ignorantly and brazenly concluding that she is nothing short of smitten with him (because, surely, it could be nothing else), Rohan feels his brawny chest broaden with pride, the smirk on his lips lilting with satisfaction. He shifts his weight when she moves to seemingly accept his presence, both of them standing comfortably beneath the colorful glass of the pavilion’s roof.

However, his pride-ridden elation is short lived, dwindling like the thick pull of molasses between your fingers—slow, unwilling, and clinging onto its place in your hands. The bay mare does not respond at first, so he waits almost patiently, bright green eyes resting contentedly along the pretty curves of her face. Seconds pass and turn into minutes, and still the strange mare speaks nothing to him—at this point, it doesn’t take long for the awkwardness to settle in between them.

Rohan eventually allows his gaze to drift from his silent company, roaming idly along the ancient stone pillars, the hard flat floor, and even reaching beyond to where winter howls her strength mightily through the forest that trembles and grits itself against her cold fury. Of course, these are all petty musings. Meant to pass the time, focusing perhaps a little too hard on a particular detail of the Rotunda’s immaculate architecture—always hoping, waiting, and then begging that she will say something, give him anything.

To no surprise to himself, and perhaps a slight relief that he has not stumbled upon a muted beauty, the tension is cracked when she smiles. This one is bolder than before, conniving even, and he raises one side of his brow curiously. The stallion follows her gaze—outward, behind them, where from the blustery gales of Frostfall, a predator emerges. Rohan pins his ears instinctively, although his posture quickly relaxes when it becomes obvious that the wolf is hers—a companion, if he remembers correctly. They seem to be quite a thing around here…it is both strange and exciting to see the tales and legends of his homeland brought to life in this bizarre new world.

The bay mare’s witty warning brings a wry smirk from his lips, and he huffs throatily before speaking. “I hope for his better company, then. This is not an interaction that I’m particularly keen to be rid of,” Rohan’s green eyes rest evenly on the white wolf, not quite sure what to make of him yet, although his features soften into their usual mischief as his gaze slides back to the mare.

He gives her a smooth, practiced wink before dipping his head in a dramatic bow—his mother had always told him to be a gentleman, after all. “My name is Rohan,” he announces himself with a crooked smile, “I’ll admit you had me worrying there. No doubt a lady is incomplete without her guard.” His tail flicks around his flanks, his deep voice very much amused.


tag; @[Essetia]
“Speech.”

Lend me your hand and we’ll conquer them all,

but lend me your heart and I’ll just let you fall.

Lend me your eyes I can change what you see,

but your soul you must keep,

t o t a l l y f r e e.