So, he continues to evade the tantalizing fingers of the Basin.
 
But why the Edge? Perhaps it is its familiarity, assuming its welcome still stands after these passing months, or perhaps it is the mighty beckoning of its strapping kings. Either way, it hadn’t been long after the bloodbath in the blood woods that the Warlander had departed. His destination hadn’t been clear at first, but his hooves soon lead him closer and closer to the edge of the world (a fitting place for an adventurer like himself, he thinks). Perhaps unconsciously he had always been headed in that general direction, towards a herd and purpose, but it had ultimately been the battle to make his mind.
 
If nothing else, Rohan feels a sense of pride in choosing the World’s Edge and its herd, rather than being recruited. As necessary as everyone thinks it is, he doesn’t fancy the idea of being corralled and auctioned for. So it is with a flashy spring in his step that he moves forward, notwithstanding the limp that roughens his strides, the lingering effects and bleeding banners of battle.
 
At last the horizon is feathered with the forest of trees that shelters the Edge, and Rohan knows that he is finally drawing close. For a short moment his pace slows, large hooves hesitating over the thawing ground as green eyes are cast forward, his lips pursing in a final moment of consideration. Gone are the chances to contemplate if this is the right decision, or if this is what he wants—Helovia’s wilds have shared their beauty with him, and while he has no intention in abandoning his heart’s wanderlust completely, there is something else that thrums behind the beating in his chest. A sense of purpose—a calling.
 
And now he knows that he must listen to it. Even if his attempts in this foggy land sputter and flounder, ultimately giving way to failure, his confidence assures him that at least he will have done everything he could to remedy the hollow aching in his mind. After laying out his life, the Warlander no longer sees Helovia as another pit stop along his journey. He had fought for this world, bled for it, and now he must explore everything it has to offer him.
 
Exhaling heavily in a deep grunt, the antlered stallion presses onward once again, picking up his powerful (albeit, limping) strides—moving with a sort of resolution towards World’s Edge. Fortunately, he doesn’t have time to falter in his resolve as he closes in on the borders, two figures catching his attention before he even breaks into the thickness of the trees. They are both strangers to him—although that isn’t necessarily surprising, as he has only met three of the Edge’s members—and his interest swells when their scents confirm them to be females. It seems to be going well for him so far, doesn’t it?
 
Approaching them, he catches the very last of their conversation—an inquiry of origins. “Now isn’t that always the question of the day,” the breadth of his deep voice broadens over the space between them, a spark of amusement flashing beneath the masculinity of his tone. Rohan’s lips twist into a skewed grin—balancing on the brink of a smirk—when he draws to a halt, pointedly ignoring the aching of his battered body.
 
“Hello, ladies,” his thick neck arches in a bow to each of them, more of a show than anything; his mother had always told him to be a gentleman, after all. “My name is Rohan, an outcast; I have also come to join your noble ranks, if you will have me.” He says this with a dramatic flourish, his crooked smile widening. It is all an assumption, of course—the two mares could have been herd mates for months and are just noticing each other now, although the petite beauty looks far less at ease than the other (then again, she could just be like that all the time). In any case, he stands by his assumptions until he is corrected.
 
Shifting his weight to stand comfortably with his wounds, looking quite mighty with his battle scars (or so he tells himself), the Warlander continues with flirting interest. “And who might you beauties be?” His green eyes flicker between the both of them, and it occurs to him that he isn’t at all eager for their Highnesses to arrive. After all, what male would be eager to share two stunning women with two other men? Do the math. He might as well make the most of this moment while it is in his grasp.


notes; Hi!:) this is set after the Time God battle thread, so I apologize if his general state/wounds shift a bit as the battle thread progresses xD 
“Speech.”

Tembovu

Thick, black tipped ears twitched- voices. High pitched feminine voices, rolling masculine ones. He had been surveying the shattered glass (honestly in dismay, it seemed he was making slow progress on the cleaning the mess as the sole glazier). So he welcomed the distraction- any distraction.

The elephant left the painfully slowly disappearing mess of glass, following his ears to the confluence of voices. He thought he heard to females- maybe a welcome of somesort? Then a rougher, clearly male voice. He thought he heard flirting, if the tone was any inclination.  He smiled lopsidedly to himself, amused by his eavesdropping.

He cleared the trees that blocked his view as his King approached a lovely cream mare dipped in crimson. He noted the intimate, if brief, and possessive touch placed on her neck. Ears twitch at the irritated, if amiable, words given to the war beaten antlered stallion. “Torliek,” his low voice was laced with deference owed to a king, though he did not address him by the title. He still was wont to shy away from titles and established authority- and he didn’t quite know his king well enough to trust him with his deep, unfaltering respect.

Briefly he assesses his own injuries from the god battle. A burn across his broad haunches, the skin still freshly boiled. Other scrapes, bruises, gashes littered his thick hide. But it as the constant sting of the burn that rankled him. He assuredly preferred broken ribs or deep pains to this constant sting.

He found his eyes had settled on the pretty, delicate mare. The uncertainty in her colorful body  implied her newness to the herd. He found himself giving an easy, lopsided smile to the dainty lady, nodding his great horn in welcoming.

He turned his bright blue eyes to meet the bright green of the antlered stud- ‘Rohan’ as Torliek has called him. The stallion was striking, to be sure, though a sense of cockiness preceded him and his words. He was certainly self-assured. A chuckle almost escaped the elephant as the mannerisms reminded him of an amusing friend he had had. Though he cut it short, choosing instead to speak, “I’m not sure what you two roses have done to land yourselves among us thorns,” he now allowed himself a chuckle, “But I am Tembovu, a glazier here. I hope Torliek’s appearance means that you two will be joining us?” he switched to address the colorful small woman and the shaggy stud. He had seen the scarlet-gilded, pale woman hanging at the edges of the herd meeting. Though she had seemed uncertain, uncomfortable then. Almost as she did now- the thought disquieted him. A woman loved by a king should not feel unwelcome in her own home.

So he turned his warm smile and eyes towards her. He was about to speak or make a joke to put her at ease, but bit his tongue- mindful of the possession with which Torliek acted. Now was not the time to incur the irritation of a King.