In the days following the Earth God’s battle, he had felt the tantalizing deliverance of comfort, he had felt relief—and, for a moment, he had dared to hope that he had finally been cured of the Flat’s dastardly headache (not pausing to think of how or when exactly, seeking only to be freed from the parasite’s tiny, throbbing, tortuous clutches). He had dared to hope.

However, not long after his pale hooves had swept the flowery bridge once more, grazing Helovia’s mainland with a gait that was far too unsparing, far too proud, the Rift’s accursed sickness had risen again. With every step, the movement had jarred through every fiber of his being, pulsing through his aching muscles only to converge at the base of his skull and behind his eyes, where the pain climaxes in a pounding, blinding agony. Angered to be thrust back down from his moment of elation, torn from the clouds of ecstasy, the Warlander had ran.

A wiser individual would have rebuked him for being so rash, so careless (why run—why force himself further into the black pit that is his suffering?) but Rohan cares little for such nonsense. He had only acted on the primal instincts of his body—to run, to fight—and hadn’t hesitated to ponder the consequences. Up and up he had climbed, barely recognizing the ground as it elevated beneath his hooves, or the burning of his muscles as they pushed him further and further towards the heavens. All he had known was the incessant affliction of his body, and his want—his need—to escape it.

He suffers the consequences now.

With his large body damp with sweat (not from his earlier trek, but from the sickness that sends him spiraling in his misery) Rohan stands at the mountain’s peak, the grassy meadow billowing out behind him. Fresh blood leaks from his ears to stain his cheeks, and his gut churns painfully with the parasite that festers inside of him.

He hardly even notices the arrival of another to this highland field, hardly even recognizes as her scent (so exhilarating, so feminine) curls the velvet skin of his nostrils, or hardly perceives the soft fall of her hooves, muted by the meadow’s thick grasses. Slowly, agonizingly, the Warlander raises his head from where it had fallen (the action far too strenuous) and he pins his ears against the sudden rush of dizziness. The weight of his large antlers is almost too much to bear, and for once he does not boast in their impressive size, but curses it. Looking to the general direction of the stranger (or where he assumes her to be), he extends a gruff, nearly indignant address.

“Hello?”


notes; I'm anxious to get him healed! :3 if you want, he can duck out soon and I'll bring in Tia ^^
EDIT: I just saw that all SWP diseases were cured, so he technically doesn't have HFH anymore xD but if you want to, we can do a quick she "heals" him (he still has burns and bruises anyway), and then he leaves and I can bring in Tia to talk healing :D
“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.