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01-02-2016, 12:15 AM
rohan
The stallion’s aim is blind, his body lurching recklessly towards Mauja with a drive that is fueled more by power and adrenaline than skill and prowess. He does not wrestle, does not know as the older stallion does—the seemingly foolish gnashing of teeth and lashing of hooves, all to cause pain—and for what? The spotted is not his enemy. However, logic and reasoning have never been part of Rohan’s strong points. He just does, whether or not it makes sense. This simply feels right; to hone his skills, to give his friend a distraction, to offer him a pain that will overshadow whatever agony might be in his heart—
—because that is what he would want.
To forget.
His muscles coil with this passion, with this blind fervor, and the jarring from his antlers down to his spine tells him he’s made his mark. It is not as sudden or harsh as it had been to impale the Riftian Gods (clearly, the Warlander still remembers the abrupt shuddering of his body, of his bones, and the trembling of punctured muscles bleeding around his antlers and into his eyes, hot and burning—)
A foreign, angry shriek thrusts Rohan out of his memories. Narrowed eyes open a little wider, seeing for the first time the ugly gashes along Mauja’s side—and it feels strange, to actually see evidence of his fury, of his power carved into the flesh of an ally, a friend—he can feel his heart hammering wildly against his ribs, skipping and squeezing and hurting and flying. Perhaps if he had more compassion in his heart (that barricaded, beaten heart that he dares to call a stone), then Rohan would flounder more in the prickling guilt, the itching shame of his joy in pain—but it is not so.
He feels empowered—
—unbreakable—
And he will not rob himself of this glorious exhilaration.
Alight with the adrenaline that pumps a beautiful fury through his veins and into his bones, the Warlander nearly skips, pale hooves only skimming the ground where gravity forces them, likely to thrive like this forever—until the beast catches up to him, reaching out with angry claws and wild, haunted eyes.
Mauja’s abrupt halt is unexpected, the Warlander’s flanks grazing the ground as he forces himself to slow, fighting the power of his momentum with a half-rear. The lower part of his left shoulder throbs from where Mauja’s hoof had made contact, the pain shooting in pinpoints from the point of connection to his head. There it festers, fueling the fire that blazes beneath his skin. Releasing a guttural cry of primitive and furious passion, Rohan lunges forward, teeth bared and seeking the thick, beating flesh of Mauja’s flank. Perhaps he would have made a warrior of himself, or perhaps he would have looked back in regret and shame—but instead the hot blaze of talons and wings come to give him their savage glory, lurching like snakes at the oncoming stallion.
His war cry turns into one of pain, a terrible shriek that claws from his lips and bursts violently into the air. Instinctively, Rohan throws his head down in an attempt to protect his eyes. The flames lick down the length of his neck and to his shoulders, blistering and scorching and throbbing, with the acrid smell of burnt hair and blistered flesh infesting his nostrils. “Not again!” The Warlander growls, remembering the dragons, the fire, how his body had hurt as it does now—the pain unforgiving and entirely awful. “Damn you, Mauja—flaming birds?!” He almost laughs at the irony—because of course the ice guy would have fire—that just makes complete sense!
Clenching his jaw against the bristling pain, Rohan leaps forward again. He stumbles once when the movement irritates his sore, scalded flesh, but finds his stride with a snarling hiss spit from his teeth. He doesn’t have a plan of action, he doesn’t even know exactly what he’s going to do next, but he knows the call rising in his (boiling) blood. A call for action. Pumping his legs, the Warlander lashes out sideways with bared, gnashing teeth—searching for any vulnerable part of Mauja’s face.
“Speech.”
Attack: 2/3
WC: 702
—because that is what he would want.
To forget.
His muscles coil with this passion, with this blind fervor, and the jarring from his antlers down to his spine tells him he’s made his mark. It is not as sudden or harsh as it had been to impale the Riftian Gods (clearly, the Warlander still remembers the abrupt shuddering of his body, of his bones, and the trembling of punctured muscles bleeding around his antlers and into his eyes, hot and burning—)
A foreign, angry shriek thrusts Rohan out of his memories. Narrowed eyes open a little wider, seeing for the first time the ugly gashes along Mauja’s side—and it feels strange, to actually see evidence of his fury, of his power carved into the flesh of an ally, a friend—he can feel his heart hammering wildly against his ribs, skipping and squeezing and hurting and flying. Perhaps if he had more compassion in his heart (that barricaded, beaten heart that he dares to call a stone), then Rohan would flounder more in the prickling guilt, the itching shame of his joy in pain—but it is not so.
He feels empowered—
—unbreakable—
And he will not rob himself of this glorious exhilaration.
Alight with the adrenaline that pumps a beautiful fury through his veins and into his bones, the Warlander nearly skips, pale hooves only skimming the ground where gravity forces them, likely to thrive like this forever—until the beast catches up to him, reaching out with angry claws and wild, haunted eyes.
Mauja’s abrupt halt is unexpected, the Warlander’s flanks grazing the ground as he forces himself to slow, fighting the power of his momentum with a half-rear. The lower part of his left shoulder throbs from where Mauja’s hoof had made contact, the pain shooting in pinpoints from the point of connection to his head. There it festers, fueling the fire that blazes beneath his skin. Releasing a guttural cry of primitive and furious passion, Rohan lunges forward, teeth bared and seeking the thick, beating flesh of Mauja’s flank. Perhaps he would have made a warrior of himself, or perhaps he would have looked back in regret and shame—but instead the hot blaze of talons and wings come to give him their savage glory, lurching like snakes at the oncoming stallion.
His war cry turns into one of pain, a terrible shriek that claws from his lips and bursts violently into the air. Instinctively, Rohan throws his head down in an attempt to protect his eyes. The flames lick down the length of his neck and to his shoulders, blistering and scorching and throbbing, with the acrid smell of burnt hair and blistered flesh infesting his nostrils. “Not again!” The Warlander growls, remembering the dragons, the fire, how his body had hurt as it does now—the pain unforgiving and entirely awful. “Damn you, Mauja—flaming birds?!” He almost laughs at the irony—because of course the ice guy would have fire—that just makes complete sense!
Clenching his jaw against the bristling pain, Rohan leaps forward again. He stumbles once when the movement irritates his sore, scalded flesh, but finds his stride with a snarling hiss spit from his teeth. He doesn’t have a plan of action, he doesn’t even know exactly what he’s going to do next, but he knows the call rising in his (boiling) blood. A call for action. Pumping his legs, the Warlander lashes out sideways with bared, gnashing teeth—searching for any vulnerable part of Mauja’s face.
“Speech.”
Attack: 2/3
WC: 702
RUN AWAY WITH ME
lost souls and reverie; running wild and running free.
lost souls and reverie; running wild and running free.
![[Image: 57c5195f31f1b_by_relibelli-db9li1z.png]](http://orig06.deviantart.net/bb9e/f/2017/138/7/1/57c5195f31f1b_by_relibelli-db9li1z.png)
please tag Rohan in all replies!
magic & force is permitted, excluding death or permanent injury.
