Sikeax,

Fear etches its way into the heart, soul and mind into everything that classifies as prey. It tells them with instinct’s fierceness and pungency that this what you’re supposed to always be, that regardless of how you may try to change it, you are doomed to fall into the jaws of whatever ails you. You are not meant to be on top.
Hobgoblin is a constant reminder of this, teeth snarling as black lips coil, locked into powerful jaws that taunt her. Hunger is fleeing as he takes his kills and shreds them, clings onto them with his teeth til his thrashing of their possibly, but hopefully not barely living bodies gives him a chunk of them that he desires. This has gone on for an hour now, and the abundance is pleasuring, but sport is taking him over.
If there is anything that one must know about Leopard Seals is that they are more than willing to take sport in guiltless, woundless hunting of things they discover, and Hobgoblin takes the nature of each of his form in strife.
Deep heaves fill her lungs and chest to capacity, the smallest ghosts of steam vaping out of her nostrils as the whites showcasing themselves around her eyes from her panic slowly begin their work into hiding. He knows that she knows that he wants her. He wants to harass and destroy her because that’s what instinct tells him to do, because that’s what’s supposed to be entertaining for a Leopard Seal. The fear that she’s feeling drives him on like gasoline in an inferno.
Luck plays her a welcome hand, but not without its double-edged sword. The presence of the deer overwhelm him. He is outnumbered, unable to make his actions into plans, his body feeling stiff when it is typically fluid and easily molded by his will. Maybe she plays a part in this too. Her feelings ease him backwards, snaking away as the nose on his snout rolls upwards into a range of mountains, stacked against one another.
He’ll get them soon enough.
Sikeax is not free from the feelings that constrict her. Her brain is in a panic, telling her a thousand different things, and as she is stormed by a pair of antlers and small bodies, bounding forward to be so close to her when she needs a vast, empty void to bring herself down in. They shrink her with their actions. Her hind legs tuck in like she intends to rear but her front legs lock as their knees push bolts into them, ears sweeping backwards as a nearly inaudible gasp bursts free without constraints.
She can’t bring herself to hurt them. That lesson has been learned in the past, but Hobgoblin on the other hand, he could destroy without mercy and never think a second thought about it, even when the repercussions meet him head on. He’s bold like that, in that he doesn’t give a single damn about what’s going to happen as long as it doesn’t affect his aggressive, warlord-esque bliss.
She wishes he was there, that he would rise out of the sea and save her, but all he can think of right now is how to maul her.
In her singularity, she hunts for bravery, reaching in and coming out with something.
The fish is actually fairly small in comparison to everyone to everyone else here, but it makes a large presence in how it offers a splash of colour into the bleak, snapping sparks with vibrant blues. She threatens them with it, proving to them that if her magic wounds them that suddenly it is their doing, and not her own.
They bare her a voice. It has touch of familiarity to it, made of memories that she’s tried to get rid of because that was another bad day and bad time, when Hobgoblin was more of a beast and near demon from some other realm, her a piece of silk that torn with ease against the slaughter brought forth by his bloodstained talons. Both of them have grown, and maybe the owner of the voice has to and is worth second chances.
Her life has been filled with them, and she knows well to let them happen if they seem to have worth and change.
He addresses her as ‘Stranger,’ another reminder that they’ve come to know each other other than foul beasts who lashed out upon one another whether it was intentional or not, pushed along by emotions and things they had no real power over.
She collects herself enough to turn to him, watching with gathered brows full of distaste as the deer move about as they please. Are they his?
If Hobgoblin is listening, he makes no sign.
What she discovers following the turn of her gaze is a man, shaped out of that awkward, ugly adolescence that she had previously seen him be plagued by. He’s filled himself out, scarred now, decorated and stained, dark, ugly horn still there. She hates how it looks on his face but can’t bring herself to imagine what its appearance would have been like if it hadn’t grown so weirdly. It wouldn’t suit him. He’s ugly, but in a way that suits him. He makes a man with bad looks but wears them like he’s accepted it, and for that, she respects him.
He pours her a glass of strong words that taste of truth. She sips but doesn’t swallow, nor spits it free, instead holding onto them so that she may run them through the stressed wiring of her brain and process them through.
To him, she builds herself a mountain, all stone and ice and height, born of the north but cultured in the south. He has hurt her, wounded her, but assisted her, and quite possibly she can get herself over this.
She swallows that glass with a nod of the head, a silent “okay.” that is more of a “whatever it takes to clear the air.”
His name is nearly nothing to her. Names barely have meaning these days, glued to faces and personalities that make more of a mark that anything that he can spew from his lips. She decides over short thoughts that Ashamin does not deserve her name. If he wants it so dearly, he can win it from her.
“What can I do for you, Ashamin?” Her voice is gravel and stone, storm clouds and rolling thunder, a lingering ghost trying to tell him that she wants a genuine apology instead of him spilling his wrongs like someone has split his brain open for her to look into.

OOC: Please do tag me!
And I apologize for the abrupt ending of this post without a good fade. It just sorta ended up her side right then.

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