Sikeax,

Dread hangs in her head like the noose that’s destined to take a life, staring it’s subject into the eyes so that it knows there will be worse to come. The white mass of skin is enough to make her insides scream. She’s never gotten the chance to see burns up close with the exception of sunburns, and the sight of it alone is enough to roll her stomach into knots.
Hobgoblin’s wings are scorched to black along their tips. Holes fill up the places where he’d once bore lovely wings, dripping blood behind their black shield as it hangs from his lips. A wall goes up every time she makes an attempt to beg him to stop worsening his situation, to her heal his wounds so that some day he might be able to fly again.
He’s just a baby. Why do you have to treat scared children in such a way?
She knows he doesn’t like to being called a baby, but when he cries over his wings, tearing the flesh and releasing small whines of pain, she knows that beyond his facade of hatred, pride and aggression is a child who has yet to make himself a man. The cracks in her frail, porcelain mold of a heart deepen because she has tried one more time, desperately extending her neck and possibly worsening her situation just to make sure he’s okay and that he’ll be okay in the future, only to have him totter away from her love.
Please, so you’ll heal quicker.
A small chirp, hollowed out with sadness, floats from him and sinks her heart. Water climbs her sides and slips over the burns on her neck without acknowledgment. The lack of pain furthers her in fear in how bad she’s been wounded, in just how bad his own wounds are for him when he refuses to let her care for him.
Someone else can always do better than myself.
As his beautiful silver body slips into a black mass of fur with the same burns wrapped around his front legs, it comes to question if he’ll ever function the same way. Mortally wounded before he even had the chance to live his life to the fullest.
Cries of pain bring wincing eyes and cringes across her wasted features, curiosity and temptation across his mind. Wounds do not stop his natural instinct for food and the one thing that gave him a sort of ferocity in the world that made an attempt to destroy him, even both of them.
He flogs her with his suffering with any try made at movement. Blood and burned skin follows in his path, and when she wishes to wail and sob, to stream tears down her honey cheeks from pain while she forces herself after him, there is nothing, all cold death that has no savior and only purgatory.
Please, let me carry you. What if you hurt yourself enough in the future that you never walk again?
She crumbles and breaks at the face he makes at her when he comes back to her like a rebellious child who is deep down loyal and desperate for safety and comfort, dripping depression at such speed that it strikes her in waves. What should be talons or claws is nothing more than wounded skin when it touches her, rubbing against her body and possibly staining it with blood. She can’t see if he’s bleeding or not though he probably already is.
Like the beast child she’s always known him to be, the urge to move forward for his own interests is rough, driven by the sole want to fill all of his desires regardless of what bars him from it.
Blood rains from the ceiling and glitters. Beneath it is a white face she can barely remember, blurred behind the mask of suffering and immediate shock from their 'attack'. Words commit suicide upon her velvet lips, gone before she’s sure they even existed.
Like the baby.
Hobgoblin, on the hand, through his loathing of life(surely adopted from Sikeax) and suffering, cannot defeat his need for survival. Nails dig through her in a reminder that in their wounded state, she had neglected to help him receive food. Diving might of brought something small if she could manage it, but being underwater felt like the last thing on her mind.
Embarrassment cloaks her when he begins an onslaught of relentless begging, chirping at the red reptile up in the ceiling.
Don’t do that. I’ll get you food soon.
But he chooses to ignore her, letting his cries increase in volume in childish hopes of achieving food.

OOC: Hobgoblin is a black serval and making this noise like a child.

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