Rohan watches the other stallion steadily. His large antlers remain poised, brandished proudly and ready for a fight, too eager to offer distraction from a problem he couldn’t possibly understand. In this, it is simple for the young warrior. He doesn’t need to understand (it is not in his nature to pry Mauja’s secrets from the depths of his grief), he simply offers a helping hand in the only way he is comfortable with—the blinding and distracting release of control. Rohan will do this for his king, if nothing else.

As his tail lashes against the thick skin of his flanks, green eyes gauge the other’s reaction, his subtle smirk deepening across his lips at Mauja’s apparent surprise. While much too proud for his own good, the Warlander still wishes to prove himself. For too long he had lived under the iron claws of his father, beaten down with steely eyes and tossed away for youth. Rohan will not stand to be looked over in such a way again. It may not be power that tempts the wildness of his heart, but he does love to be appreciated—who doesn’t?—it is only natural—

—suddenly there is movement that snatches his attention.

His distracted thoughts billow away like smoke from his eyes, and the Warlander focuses to see Mauja charging. There had been no warning from the elder male, no sound or grunt to caution him of Mauja’s advance, and he finds himself caught off-guard. However, the moment is short. Surprise quickly gives way to excitement, adrenaline and testosterone singing in his veins, the war cry far too sweet and beautiful for one who has not truly seen the tragedies of battle. He is honored to face his superior now.

Tossing his proud head eagerly and releasing a guttural cry, Rohan surges to the right, intending to side-pass Mauja’s advance while matching his stride. However, in all of his enthusiasm, his reaction is not quick enough. The collision is felt first—the heavy thrusting of the other’s shoulder into his breast, the shock reverberating through his bones—before a shuddering gasp echoes in his ears as the air is shoved roughly from his lungs.

The young warrior manages not to stumble for more than a few steps, his sideways movement having saved him from being thrust backwards, though he struggles to regain his breath. Brown nostrils flare wide and jaws part in his wheezy gasps, but Rohan pushes forward. Perhaps a more experienced warrior would circle Mauja in order to recover, but the Warlander knows no such tactics—only the push and pull of his muscles, the dull throbbing of his shoulder, and the reckless determination that drives him ever onward.

Gritting his jaw, muscles coil as Rohan shoves his hooves into the solid ground, dirt spraying and his body jolting when his motion is suddenly redirected. Curling his body around in a sharp arc, his neck turns to face the same direction as Mauja, head twisted and thrust upwards in an attempt to pierce Mauja’s right side with his antlers. There is little effort of aim. His mind is a thrill of adrenaline and excitement, too high on the pounding of his hooves and panting gasps resounding in his ears.


“Speech.”
Attack: 1/3
WC: 542

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