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

The Warlander rolls his eyes playfully when the larger stallion jests about the fury of the gods, ignoring the pressure pain in his skull when he does so, and hardly suppressing a bark of laughter. He cares little for the opinions of deities at this point, too proud to allow mere strangers to have such a hold on his mighty heart. Let them think what they must, if they give him no reason to change his own judgements. “I suppose I should be flattered, if they consider my opinion worthy enough to do so,” he laughs more freely now, a glimmering spark flashing through the green of his eyes.

However, when the jesting of wrathful gods and their wretched diseases fades into silence, a seriousness settles in its wake. Rohan can tell by his expression that Tembovu is truly contemplating his question, which had meant to be nothing more than an off-handed musing of an ornery stallion. The Warlander shifts his weight uncomfortably, not in any rush to usher words from the other one’s mouth.

Rohan does not do well in solemn matters. He prefers to think of more fantastical and wilder places, where the black shadows of cruelty and injustice cannot penetrate. Of course, he finds himself swathed in their punishing embrace far too often, too young and proud now to catch himself in time.

With the pursing of brown, weary lips, he ponders shortly on Tembovu’s words. He does not possess the same compassion as the elder male, having survived an invasion before, while the pieces of his brother had not. Rohan can’t help but feel the same rejection towards these newcomers, but he is not a monster (despite what he might tell himself some days). He does not call for their blood just yet, allowing them a chance to prove themselves different from the beasts of his memories.

His attention rousing from his thoughts when the query is directed back to him, the Warlander lets slip a shadowing smirk. “That’s a question I’m still asking myself, my friend,” he shakes his head, gritting his teeth and exhaling against the painful weight of his antlers. “I have yet to acquaint myself with any of these ‘poor devils’ from the Rift. Part of me pities them, while the other half of me curses their foreign diseases,” Rohan’s smirk deepens, his pale tail lashing around his flanks, the long hairs biting at his tender skin. Of course, he supposes that they already face dangers within Helovia, from each other. Still, he remains mildly wary, a lingering fear escaping him in a heavy breath, “Let’s just hope they don’t turn out to be anything like their gods.”


notes; I'm so sorry for the wait!
“Speech.”

rohan