The Warlander isn’t entirely sure what it is that compels him to leave the Edge (or rather, he ignores what it is). For days he had been rooted to its borders—pacing, searching, and huffing—until suddenly, he had just…left. He has no particular destination in mind, simply following his feet and allowing his mind to shut off while his body settles into a steady, ground-swallowing gait. Of course, it is nigh impossible for the antlered stallion to really “shut off” his mind. His thoughts are ever occupied and demanding of his attention—ever haunting.

How dare she.

He clings to his anger, his frustration, but it is like clutching at a branch with the tips of his fingers. As much as he tries, as much as he clings to his fury with the small mare, the image of her leaving remains burned in the forefront of his memory—tattooing the sadness that had pierced his stone heart, carving into the hard surface with slow and deliberate barbs. The more this grief and guilt roar against its cage, the more he struggles to keep it captive, and the more he clings to his anger, his resentment—and, ultimately, the more he feels it slipping away.

Unconsciously, Rohan pushes himself faster, harder, strong hooves thundering against the cold ground until it is all he can comprehend. The beating of his heart and panting of his breath swells in his ears, and still he presses forward, trying to drown out everything else. The Warlander is already well into the woods of the Threshold before he even registers his surroundings. Slowing suddenly with an upward jerk of his head, he comes to a brutish halt, the mess of his long mane tangling in the lower parts of his antlers. Steam would be rising from his hairy body were it any colder, but despite the crisp coolness of an autumn day, he still finds himself somewhat warm.

Sighing melodramatically to himself and whipping his tail around muscular flanks, Rohan saunters through the forest. Not necessarily being the kiss-ass type of man, he has rarely wandered to the Threshold since his own arrival in Helovia—and never intentionally. It is entirely by accident that he stumbles into the clearing with the fairy-winged pegasus, and he exhales heavily from his nostrils before deciding to approach the brightly-colored stranger.

“Your wings—” he gestures with a bearded chin towards the pixie-like appendages, “—are they really able to hold your weight in the air?” Green eyes narrow slightly as he inspects them distantly, ever curious of the winged equines (and ever envious of their ability to take to the air). In any case, he’s never seen any type of wing other than the typical bird-like wings of the usual pegasus; even in his homeland, he had never seen such wings as this. Clearing his throat, Rohan return his eyes to the other stallion’s face. “My name is Rohan, a warrior for World’s Edge—have you just stumbled into Helovia?”


notes; <333 :D
“Speech.”

Lend me your hand and we’ll conquer them all,

but lend me your heart and I’ll just let you fall.

Lend me your eyes I can change what you see,

but your soul you must keep,

t o t a l l y   f r e e.