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

The ocean is always going to be her home. It’s something that she’s discovered in the time that she spent taken so far away from it. It holds onto and pulls at her, takes her hand with one of its own, and uses the other to collect both of her wrists when she is seemingly comfortable, proceeding to throw her viciously and effortlessly into a fray that she is beginning to believe that she is doomed to.
She loves the sea, but she is sure that it doesn't love her back. The ocean loves no one, not even itself.
There are no bones in the abyss that she can see, and Hobgoblin is glued to her side through the entire trip, propelling himself gracefully as she feels that these trips are going to become less often. From the Throat, the trip is a lot longer than it seems, and transversing the endless streak of dry flatland that offers a shorter trip in response makes her stomach coil. Her home desert has mountains, stones that raise far above her head and wildlife that makes itself known without regards to those living there, yet the flatland has nothing. It is empty in the way that makes the world seem like it's much larger than you originally imagined, that every star in the sky is now an eye pinpointed to your location.
She questions how others manage to make that damned trip, how they don't die in the heat and become lost in the vastness, desperate for water and possibly food that happens to never come.
Sand lets her hooves sink into its moist mold before hardening into a body that makes both of them stumble and sink with less grace than before. Hobgoblin momentarily snarls at the heat of it against his soft underbelly before changing entirely, black legs letting small paws flick grains into her honey coloured coat. He makes it to the vegetation before she does and wastes no time in stopping, bolting onward so that her gait must change to match it.
From there, the rest is a blur, lost in time and space, swallowed by thoughts and the endless sway of her body as she pushes through trees and vines and flowers along paths woven into the mass of the jungle.
The occurrence of a river is pleasing to the pair. Beneath the canopy, the sunlight doesn't strike her hide as harshly as it typically does, leaving her spared from burns but still having the faint, lingering scent of aloe vera with her. Thirst dries her throat, and she looks ahead to see Hobgoblin is already beaten her to indulging in the sweet, cool water, dipping his paws as his body sinks. Her head dips mere feet from him, and she sips, both cursing and thanking the gods that the water is cold as it punches her in the gut.
She can't help but feel that something isn't right, and while something is coloured to not fit their surroundings, she is too busy with her personal needs to put too much attention to it. Hobgoblin could deal with predators. She has nothing to worry about as her head raises, water falling from her dampened maw.
It isn't exactly a predator, she discovers. Her attention is set onto the small mare as she stares into water. Splashing hums in her ears as she watches her brother move in their company's direction, hunger encouraging him to hope that there is food where she is staring.
"Are you okay?" Concern hints at her voice as rocks click against her hooves, pushing herself with the current to move slowly towards the mare. "Is everything alright?"
Hobgoblin scolds her for her concern for complete strangers with a burn of anger fueled by annoyance. There are no fish, he's checked and now discovered, disappointed and salted by it. She takes the time to remind him that he could have easily taken a small shark out in the reef near the shoreline, but gets no response in return.
Typical.

OOC: Hobgoblin is in his black Serval form.


"Talk."

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

She studies whether she chooses to admit it or not. The other mare is exquisite, a mark of beauty and uniqueness on a dull landscape that amasses into nothing more than a growing sea of green with hints of blue when it can push its way through. Gold blankets the top of her body that is coloured like snow. Paintings of black claws climbing her cheekbones and black crying from blue eyes as if she had held her downwards for a long period of time as it fell.
Frankly, Sikeax has never seen someone like her and is captivated.
Hobgoblin laughs at her. No one will ever be enough to capture his attention entirely, no matter in what way that they choose to stand out. His eyes find not a single soul special, unique, whatever you would like to define it as with one word. Everyone is someone different, another person he has to look at when he doesn't want and someone else who is going to look at him and possibly ask another damned question about how he change his body around into something new.
A fish swims by and he leaps into the air to capture, self-absorbed pleasure budding in his chest as the slickness of its scales touch the sandpaper texture of his tongue. He will go hungry no more.
A smile is drawn out over the mare's features and Sikeax can feel herself begin the process of questioning what it means. Her features don't change to meet her thoughts, but if they had, she would have knotted her brows into wrinkles and let her eyes darken with confusion. Worry would have dropped her ears into a submissive position, hanging at the sides of her head.
The motion in her ears is exactly that as she's told that Rexanna is nothing more than exhausted. A planned collision to the effort forced into the journey given at reaching the isles.
"Would you like to find some place to rest?" The feeling of oddity is becoming increasingly overwhelming, but possibly today is a day in which the simple rules of life and survival turn their noses up at the world and make the choice to look away for a spell. Hobgoblin would waste no time in reminding her that she could walking into dangerous territory if his mouth wasn't full of flavourful fish and his head swollen with his pleasure.
Rexanna. What a different name, feminine yet with the touch of power to it. She likes it; it's almost as odd as her own, falling off into a category that can't be easily systematized.
She carries on with her slew of personal rule breaking. Rexanna is tired and probably doesn't want the stress of her avoidance to name giving, yet alone the select chance that it may add some suspicion to her presence. In the Throat, her refusal to break out her name was met with distaste that she had been fast to overcome. They could live, but there must also be times of exceptions.
Now is one of those times.
"Sikeax." Her name kisses the rain like the salt on the ocean air. "But you're welcome to call me Sia if it's easier." On occasion, it does cross her mind that by possibility that her name is a difficult one to push off the tongue, but she has always been partial to letting the nickname follow her own name if the situation isn't one to be considered formal.


"Talk."