He runs—for now, that is all he knows.

The wild growl of his breaths, the thundering squelch of his hooves through the mud, the rumbling clap of the raging storm, and the elevated pulse of his heart against his chest are the things that compel him forward, that pull muscle against bone and diminish the space between himself and the silver mare. Too blinded by the drive—the need—to escape and lose himself in this match of brute and brawn, the Warlander doesn’t care to strategize or break down their movements. He only needs now, this dance, and the beautiful, passionate fury of his partner.

It is only the subtle jarring from his head to his spine that tells him he’s made his mark. It is a gentle fluttering—a whisper—compared to the sudden, rough jolting of the attacks in his memories. Months ago when sharp, pale tines had impaled the flesh of that beast, that god, and rattled him to his core with his bloody victory. The stallion feels no such euphoria now. Instead the cold bite of the mare’s absence washes against his skin, like winter’s hoarfrost embracing him with her frigid grasp when he had wanted the warm solidity of flesh. To have her close and bowed about him, in the blustering cradle of a warrior’s embrace.

Suddenly throwing his head into the air, the Warlander’s eyes roll in their search for his silvery partner, a war cry splitting from his lips and cracking like thunder—a bold and brazen sound that melts too quickly into a shriek of terrible pain. It lances out from the point of his left shoulder, searing like wildfire through his veins. For a moment, his left foreleg threatens to give out from under him, the muscle quivering with the agony that overwhelms him for a breath—burning and throbbing, drowning out the violent storm so all he can hear is the sharp, rasping gasp of agony—before his warrior’s heart rises in a mighty requital.

With his body drinking in the sweet, fragile relief of adrenaline, Rohan forces himself into a graceless turn, pivoting so that he faces the silver mare directly. Haphazardly, he throws his neck to the side as he does so, teeth lashing out to grasp at whatever part of Nyx he might be able to reach.

It is only then, when skin recoils in protest, that he realizes that her horn had not only pierced his shoulder, but also carved a long, bleeding line down his abdomen—far shallower than the initial penetration, but painful nonetheless. The stallion snarls against the agony, refusing to hesitate. He digs his hooves into the sodden ground, hoping he has enough purchase before thrusting himself forward in an attempt to ram the smaller mare with the right side of his breast. Water and blood stream down his large body, marking his steps, their writhing motions, and this—their dance.


“Speech.”
Attack: 2/3
WC: 481
OOC: Not my best, I'm sorry; just didn't want it to default!

awake my soul