Together, they have become like ghosts, tied to one another and rarely seen apart, and if seen distanced, they are never truly that far. They frequent various places, tucked into the caverned belly of the cave system just north of the Throat, wandering the vastness of the Steppe while Sikeax thinks nonstop about nighttime, just wanting to see lights that Hobgoblin has no interests in, but only withstands because if he is to put up with her heavy emotions anymore than he has to, it’ll be the death of him.
Yet whatever they have done in the time between their leaving and now return to the Dragon’s Throat is a mystery. Sleep bathes both of their bones. Her mind cannot leave the idea of clutching to her son or slipping beneath the surface of the lake to escape into her dreams even for a bit. Weight sinks his eyelids over yellow eyes. Hooves drag through the sand and dune grass, leaving small trails in their wake. Temptation encourages him to leap upon her back and abandon her with short notice, but this time, he knows better. Home is a growing outline on the horizon, a shortening stroll over fire and sand, and her wounds, courtesy of the Sun, are not welcoming to his touch.
Sea salt overtakes her nostrils in one deep, drawn out breath, finishing itself with a sigh. Fluttering lashes over blue skies pull her back to life, a soft encouragement to keep going because they’re almost there, almost to home and Tyrath and comfort and to rest, her chance at forgetting that things are still very much crashing down in there despite what she lets herself believe.
Hobgoblin, on the other hand, is more willing to let any activities occurring around him bring her back to complete functioning. Chittering like war drums are catching in his large ears, drawing his body taut as he stops, Sikeax carrying on because in her head she’s already gone and her body is a moving vessel carried onwards by sea and desert winds. The black snake of his tail swings with increasing pace as he listens in on them, whatever they are, giving in at last to curiosity and collecting his gait to reach them.
Once more, Sikeax is somewhere else, sinking crowned skull to grab at the stale grasses because lately she’s been more needy for food than usual, chewing with distaste at the roughness and unpleasantness of her meal. She could do better easily, but there is a strong requirement of effort at that. Swallowing feels a lot harder too.
Sleep fades from her as the beach becomes less compact and more free-formed with each step, sliding and sinking as she stumbles on occasion. Squinting and scrunching her eyes can only go so far, painting a growing, dark body against the landscape ahead of her in a feeble attempt to have her collect herself more.
It barely works as Hobgoblin finds what has ailed him, tilting his head as the beasts indeed remind him of his current form, but aren’t quite it exactly.
“Do you need across?” The words nearly grumble out of her throat, obviously symptoms of her wear from traveling. Sacre hasn’t fully set himself in her head just yet, nothing else than a slowly detailing black figure with a horn due to half-closed eyes and lazy ears.

OOC: I'm digging my grave a lot deeper but i cannot resist a thread between these two.
Sikeax is tired af and sorta starting to show her pregnancy if Sacre wants to notice it or something.
Hobgoblin is in his Serval form.

talk talk talk