The Warlander is not far from the Elephant King when the great monarch calls for him. The powerful echoing of his name stops the warrior in his tracks, cornering him suddenly into stillness; like a rope that has been cast to ensnare him, Rohan feels trapped by his king’s less-than-cordial invitation. Dark-rimmed ears flatten and green eyes narrow, his lips twisting with the bitter shame that festers in his stomach (rising like bile to the back of his throat, souring his tongue with the haunting taste of failure). “Is it really necessary to yell?” Rohan growls to himself, hating the way a spotlight has been fixed upon him, despising how his weakness has been exposed and put on display for anyone within earshot.

If he had held any less respect for the mammoth of a stallion, Rohan would have ignored the summons—he would likely have wandered away and never stopped, even when the forested borders had come and gone, like a chapter written and closed in the book of his life. However, Rohan does respect his king (and he curses the needle-thin thread of morality that has tethered him to this land). Despite all the times herd life has chewed him up and spit him out, the Warlander cannot abandon those he admires for selfishness alone (not again).

Snapping his tail once around his hips, the striped warrior turns, pivoting in the direction of the Elephant King. Pale hooves carry him heavily forward. Each step feels more difficult than the last, like a march towards purgatory, ever closer to the judgement he feels weighing across his shoulders.

All too soon (and yet somehow so, so much later) he breaks into the little clearing his king has chosen. “Temobvu,” Rohan greets his friend and superior with a wry smile, though his voice is almost tired, laden with the load of emotions that have been haunting him. Lowering his eyes to the glinting light in the grass, Rohan observes the glass spear. With the pursing of his lips, he takes this as his judgement—a test of his own skill and reliability for the Edge. Unsure of the answers himself, the Warlander reaches down to grasp the weapon in his teeth: a wordless acceptance of this carnal inquisition.

He begins to circle, coming around in an arc towards the larger stallion. After a few steps he reaches an angle where the sunlight filters down on the glass spear he holds, the glare reflecting into his eyes. Quickly seizing this idea and the strategy it forges, Rohan lunges diagonally towards Tembovu’s right side, angling the spear in his lips. Thrusting the weapon upwards towards Tembovu’s face, Rohan attempts to either break skin or momentarily blind his opponent with the glare, while simultaneously aiming to skewer his antlers into the Elephant King’s neck. His heart pounds loudly in his ears, a resounding drum of expectation, not letting him forget the gravity of this test (and the cruel, sharp severity of his shame).


“Speech.”
Attack: 1/3
WC: 499
Damage tracker: -