living like we're
     r e n e g a d e s

The Warlander nods absentmindedly at the talk of their black king, not desiring to say much more on the matter. He doesn’t know Torleik very well himself, has only crossed him less than a handful of times, but Rohan doesn’t need much more than that. He fears that the Friesian is like his father—commanding, relentless, solemn, and cruel—and while his heart flares indignantly against his king because of this, there’s some small part of him that begs for Torleik to, somehow, change his mind. He had slipped away from his father’s rule for a reason…he’ll be damned if he returns to it.

His gaze having wandered with his thoughts, Rohan looks back to Tembovu when he continues, mentioning the Threshold. A gruff breath escapes the antlered stallion. “Indeed,” he muses, remembering his own Threshold experience—three of the four herds had come to him, begging,   imploring, and recruiting. What an emotionless word to use when proposing shelter to those who might want it—is it not a home they are offering, rather than a fortress? It’s like starving wolves with a piece of meat (he has since then largely avoided the forested place, only stumbling upon it once or twice).

Repressing a weighted sigh, the Warlander shifts his weight, turning around slowly to bite at his agitated abdomen, his eyes lingering on his scorched flanks when they are pointed out. “I intend to,” he concedes with a heavy breath. He has yet to meet any of Edge’s healers, knowing only the little brown Mender from the Basin—if his own herd is so lucky to have such beauties, he would not waste another moment searching them out.

A smirk flickering across his brown lips at the thought, Rohan allows silence to fall between the two stallions before he speaks, reflecting over his words and choosing them carefully—wary to reveal anything significant. Ever a man with his secrets, ever full of mysteries. “The Gods weren’t much of an influence where I’m from—each kingdom was left to their own devices. I haven’t learned enough about these Helovian Gods to form a proper opinion,” he presses his lips together, partly agreeing with Tembovu’s statement, although there isn’t a doubt in his mind between Helovia and Etherim. As dark as Helovia might get, he would leap into the seas before returning to his homeland.

“They don’t seem much different than the rest of us, though—imperfect, reckless, proud,” he chuckles dryly, his brow furrowing in displeasure when the motion intensifies the throbbing through his head. If they aren’t so different from the Gods themselves, then—what is it that makes a God a God? Did they just proclaim themselves one day? Gain eternal life and then staked their claim?

Rohan doesn’t linger for long on these thoughts, not much of the philosophical type, especially with the pain that sears through every inch of his body. Smirking when Tembovu mentions diseases, he lifts his head in amusement at the irony of it all (which is certainly anything but funny, more like horrific or terrible, but it isn’t him to dwell on it like that). “I didn’t have much experience with the black lung, but I did suffer from the Bloodfalls Boils myself…those were a bitch,” he shakes his head, remembering the bloody pustules. He pauses, breathing deeply. “Is it all worth it, do you think?” The question is almost rhetorical, not searching for any real answer as it slips unbidden from his tongue, his expression sobering slightly.


notes; I'm sorry I've been tagging Temb in every reply! I just saw your signature xD
“Speech.”

rohan