lend me your hand and we’ll conquer them all,
but lend me your heart—

Having never been to a meeting of the Edge before (or herd meeting of any kind, really) the Warlander does not at first recognize the shift in authority as some others do. The deep, bellowing call is not familiar when it finally reaches him, and he is unable to distinguish it from the herd’s previous kings’—recognizing it only as a summons, the large stallion slowly lifts his head. Dark-rimmed ears press forward as brown nostrils flare, testing the crisp morning air.

He lingers along the foggy borders of World’s Edge, not far from the ocean’s cliff, but a good distance from where the request seems to have originated. He had started to patrol the land’s borders right before the sun had risen, unable to sleep again after restlessness had wrenched him from his sweet, sweet slumber. He shuffles a pale hoof against the shattered remains of the glass wall, flicking the long length of his tail around his muscled flanks (now just about healed completely from his battle wounds) before picking up a wide, flashy trot in the call’s direction.

By the time Rohan reaches the cliff’s clearing, there is already a small gathering formed, a handful of the faces familiar to him. He comes to an unceremonious halt among them, his head rising to its natural height, his bearing as proud and noble as ever. With a flash of silver, the stallion notices @Nyx —she is not alone, seeming to have given birth since their initial encounter. Letting slip a wry twist of his lips, the Warlander appreciates the athleticism of her supple body (perhaps giving her an approving nod, should she notice his gaze) before he shifts his attention forward.

At their point stands Tembovu. Rohan’s brow knits together in a moment of confusion, knowing the colossal stallion to be the Glazier of the herd, a position (as far as he knows, anyway) that doesn’t hold any significant authority. Glancing around, green eyes settle on Mauja. The spotted stallion seems anything but a King now, standing dejected and forlorn at their flanks, head lowered almost submissively. The Warlander breathes a snort, rimmed ears flicking back before he turns again to Tembovu, eyes narrowing quizzically.

Change is coming, he can feel it.


“Speech.”

AND I’LL JUST LET YOU FALL.

rohan