He doesn’t stop until he feels something between his teeth, until he tastes the bitter warmth of blood on his tongue, his terrible and brutal thirst satisfied as hungry jaws rip and tear like a lion to its feast. The stallion clenches his teeth tighter over Mauja’s face, where skin is skin tight and fragile over bone, and the Warlander feels as though he could peel the flesh clean off were it not for his sense of reality—that tiny, delicate inkling that tries to scream at him: Mauja is not your enemy! Some part of the Warlander cries for his friend, for himself, for this violence that they have subjected themselves to.

Why do they do this?

The spotted stallion’s question rings in his ears, trilling like a bell that echoes through his mind, his body—his bones—and demands of his morals an insight, to just try to understand, what it might be like to kill. The only battle that Rohan has ever truly experienced had been those of Helovia, the sea of writhing and bloody bodies, all pushing against one another to seize a piece of their dastardly enemy. He had almost distanced himself then, hardly seeing those filthy gods as anything more than things—pests that they needed to be rid of. His heart had cried a call of his warrior spirit, urging him on, and it rises now; because they must.

They must fight, if they are to win. Rohan needs no more satisfaction than that now, grasping their violence as practice—practice for war, whenever it might fall upon them (and he doesn’t doubt that it will, their world ever uneasy and difficult with each other).

But for now this is their training, their rehearsal for the war to come, and so he detaches himself from the Friesian with a wild snarling of breath. Rohan can feel the pulsing of his heartbeat through his bruised shoulder, but the dull throb is diminished by the searing agony that blisters over his neck and withers, the pain lancing like razorblades through his veins. Jaw muscles clench with his misery, his mind screaming at him to walk it off—that this will not bring him down. But perhaps it is too much—

—and not enough. Not enough, apparently.

Too soon he feels the weight of Mauja bearing upon him, the shock against bruised and burned flesh sparking painfully across his skin, soon followed by another wave of pain when they rise. The Warlander is carried up by his spotted partner, bolstered forcefully into a rear. Rohan steps back, attempting to balance his weight, but the excruciating distress of his scorched flesh being pulled and ripped by the movement is enough to overthrow his effort.

With an agonizing shriek, the stallion falls backwards, able to twist only enough to avoid falling on his back, though his whole body is racked by the force of his descent. He wheezes for a short moment, lungs struggling to regain his breath, eyes blinking against the black spots that hinder his vision, and blood trickling in generous trails from his ravaged neck and shoulders. His whole body hurts with a raw, torturing pain. Had he been anyone else, had he had any less of a stubborn and fiery spirit, then the Warlander likely would have given up right then.

But he doesn’t have it in him to quit.

Gritting his teeth and growling his protest, he pushes himself up from the ground. His hairy body is littered with shallow cuts and bruises, but all are paled in comparison to the ghastly, blistered, and bleeding wounds from Mauja’s flaming birds. He sways once, the dots slowly fading from his eyes before he focusses on the Friesian, his spotted ass the pinpoint of all his fury. Summoning the last threads of his energy, the Warlander leaps forward, hoping to close the distance between them. He narrows his eyes before swinging his backend around, using what strength he has left to lash out with pale hooves—hoping to strike anything.

This is his final challenge, his final protest against his aching body.


“Speech.”
Attack: 3/3
WC: 687

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