The Warlander’s dark-rimmed ears flick back at the spotted stallion’s less-than-friendly greeting, not expecting for his King to have received him so brusquely (then again, why shouldn’t he have? Rohan doesn’t know Mauja very well, having only seen him a handful of times; for all he knows, this speckled queen is little more than a glorified ass). All the same, Rohan is not one to become offended so simply, and he shakes it off with ease, his large antlers cutting through the wispy mists as he tilts his head to the side.

Silence lingers between the two stallions for a moment longer, the Warlander choosing not to answer Mauja’s question right away, unsure how to properly respond to such an anguished request. The longer he studies the older male, the more it becomes obvious that he is not…well, he looks downright terrible. Utterly awful. Gone is the mighty, gentle king that had first met him all those months ago—replaced now by what Rohan can only describe as a broken shell of a man. He takes note of Mauja’s blood-shot eyes, his unkempt hide and fresh wounds, his detached tone, and finds that he cannot relate to his plight, much less understand it.

Rohan has not lost as Mauja has lost. Granted, he does know pain, knows the agony of someone being ripped away by the cold, cruel claws of fate—his brother, quite literally torn far too soon from this life, followed shortly after by his dear grandfather, the only mentor who ever actually gave a shit about him. Even so, the Warlander had only floundered in his misery, throwing everything else away. He had ran. Abandoned everything and everyone—and he has yet to look back.

He does not know what it means to lose a child, or to lose a friend (only ever having left, rather than be left). Having spent the time after the Earth God’s battle with the little brown mare, he had not seen Mauja on the ruins of the battlefield, suffering as the last bit of him seemed to be stolen and shattered. The Warlander had not witnessed it, but it isn’t hard for him to guess that something dreadful had happened. “You don’t look so good, your highness,” the title is used dryly, nearly a smirk as it slides from his tongue, “you look like shit.”

It is meant to be a tease, but the words fall with more seriousness than he had intended. On a good day, Rohan can listen—he can be quite a good listener, in fact—but those days are far too intermittent, and it isn’t an attribute that he’d likely put on his list. He focuses instead on what he is comfortable with, willing to help the spotted stallion in a way he sees more fitting. “Perhaps some distraction will help you then, if you’re willing,” it is more of a challenge, an attempt to rouse Mauja from his dreary grief. Rohan steps back, arching his thick neck and brandishing his large antlers readily.


“Speech.”
Attack: 0/3
WC: 507

     RUN AWAY WITH ME
lost souls and reverie; running wild and running free.