well someday soon when the spring brings the sun
i'll sleep, i'll finally
feel better when the winter's gone

She tells herself that she is a very proud, diligent mother, and takes the utmost pride in her son. With Zhu’s absence, she clings to him, offers him as much of her time and company as she can possibly stand and hopes that he cherishes and loves the attention she gives him.
And with his age, she hesitantly reminds herself that Tyrath will not be young and small forever. He’d previously followed her into the Threshold, specifically lacking her company or permission, but seemed to have faired well. Through Hobgoblin’s encouragement and what one can only say was Tyrath’s bravery and maturity as he aged, she’d swept him under her invisible wing and asked him to be her company as she traveled to the eastern woods. Hobgoblin made little good for conversation when hunting and wanted little to do with those that they came across in the gates, and Tyrath would need to learn the importance of recruiting if he was to bring some effort into the Throat other than sleeping in the shade and swimming in the oasis, and on occasion, being roped into aiding her as she went to gather herbs in the desert.
Today was a bad choice. They’d taken time in trying to look nice, bathing in the Throat and slithering the blood of vera over her honey coat, flaking a few withering mint leaves into their manes and tails for the sake of smelling decent despite the pungency of aloe vera wafting from her. Yet against all of their efforts, the weather has very different ideas.
Lightning squealed a long, expressive screech as of its body leaps into announcement. They are too far from the island to flee homeward, as much as she wants to tell him that maybe it’s best they do go back. She doesn’t want him to become ill or wounded by storm damage, with exclusions to the violent ruffling of their previously groomed manes.
“Tyrath, whatever you do, please don’t leave my side.”
Hobgoblin is panicking and even that is an understatement. Images of flames and vicious memories of burning pain are striking like shards of hail that have yet to fall. She can’t do a thing to hide her scar from the memory that is plaguing him currently, leading him to believe that he is going to be burned and short-term crippled again. When he does see it in his flurry, it only furthers him.
“STORM. FIRE. NO HURT.”
It’ll be fine. There are no dragons to hurt you.
“HOBGOBLIN NOT GOOD.”
His legs are leaping beneath him at every cackle, her own ears sinking as she presses her son’s wing into her barrel, assuring herself that Hobgoblin will stay put and that the winds won’t take her last baby away.
In the time that she focuses her attention to Tyrath, turning muzzle to glaze it over his black mane that smells faintly of his father(how long has it been since you saw him?), Hobgoblin is but a fleeting glimpse as he finally gets something to place his panic towards.
“Hobgoblin find people. People bad.”
How do you even know?
“They bad. Hurt us.”
She sighs, drawing in a long breath as she swings her head in the direction that he has told them to go, motioning for him to follow. “Hobgoblin found someone.” is all that she can tell him. Their gate increases, chasing images captured through the trees and Hobgoblin’s blazen eyes.
A male and a female. Both equine. The man reminds her of Adrixaura in his colouring, twisting up her insides as she studies him, remembering the harsh paleness of her coat with the dark contrast of her dark spots and hair, monotone colouring broken by just a pair of pale blue eyes that she herself know owns. The female, high in height but elegant in bulk, is a renaissance painting, beautiful, and simple yet complex at the same time.
Even for a moment, she envies her. She wishes that both of her parents, painted with such uniqueness, had been kind enough to offer her a dash of their style, but none had been given. She was doomed to plainness, fair skinned and tired eyed, easily burned by the Sun that she is told to worship by her few superiors and many family members.
A nod meant only in silent greeting is ushered out to the man. She’s never really had much for words when it came to the people already centered in Helovia, and there is a faint hope that Tyrath does the same.
Behind them, Hobgoblin’s claws fit well into the mass of the tree trunk he’s found, swinging upwards in a way to try and export his pent up stress.
“Sikeax, the Sun Physician for the Dragon’s Throat, and this is my son.” A motion is done to hand any attention set on her to him now, having previously agreed that he should do his greeting. “Is there anything we can do for you today?”
“You help Hobgoblin LEAVE.”
It’s just a storm. It’ll be okay.
“Fire come back. Fire want Hobgoblin.”
I promise you, it doesn’t.
Her reassurances are weak, and it is for the better mind that she doesn’t offer him physical comfort, lest she is looking for the swiping of honed claws into her skin.

OOC: bleh.
Permission from Nova to PP Tyrath alongside Sikeax, so please wait for them to post before carrying on.
Hobgoblin is in his serval form and having a terrible panic attack so if you'd like to write out him doing something due to the storm freaking out, be my guest!
And last thing, please just tag me when it is my turn to post so my inbox won't get clogged up. thank you!

"Talk."