He moves forward—upward. Returning to that place where dreams had taken him, blurring the line of reality, ethereal and impossibly beautiful. However, when he finally crests the mountain’s peak, it is not the otherworldly perfection of his reveries—perfectly serene, sheltered from the world below, as though he has been risen to his own nirvana—this, this is reality. Flicking his creamy tail irritably about his flanks, Rohan presses on, to the edge—the precipice—stumbling ever closer to a memory.

He likely would have missed her if it wasn’t for her movement, and the muted clinking of her golden chains as they slide across her face. Tilting his fluted ears forward, the striped stallion pauses in his measured gait, green eyes glancing around before he alters his direction appropriately. Normally the mare’s gilded hide would stand out starkly against lush green grasses, but with their tips now yellowed by summer’s heat, she is not so easily visible. Still, her camouflage diminishes as the distance between them dwindles into nothing.

“Rexanna? Is that you?” Rohan’s golden brow knits together for a moment, casting a shadow over his bright eyes as he inspects the resting mare—so different, and yet unmistakably the same damsel he had the pleasure of crossing many months ago. What the hell has happened to her since then? She seems almost defeated now, like she has given up on something—on everything?—contrasting significantly to the wily enchantress that had lingered in his dreams since that winter’s night.

Given all of this, much has happened in that time—the battle for each God, in particular. Rohan himself has been changed by these events, though to measures even he doesn’t recognize quite yet. It wouldn’t be a wild guess to assume that Rexanna has felt an impact as well. “I daresay you have seen better days, darling…then again, I think we all have,” his tone is playful at first, a coquettish tease, though the depth of his voice eventually fades into brooding contemplation. The Warlander likes to think of himself as a warrior at heart, but he has seen more bloodshed these past weeks than in his entire life, and it leaves him both hungry and guarded.

He hadn’t expected battle to be so taxing on the mind.

Lowering his antlered head to her, he allows his eyes to trace the contours of her face, lingering on the dried blood and bruises beneath her skin. “Still, this…colorfulness—it becomes you,” brown lips twist into a crooked grin, dancing on the line of a smirk as the sun throws stark shadows across his rugged face.


“Speech.”

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