into the sea, you and me
all these years, and no one heard
i love you, let's go

She cannot take what has been unwillingly been deemed her’s to watch over, alone, with the guidance of the only face she’s grown used to seeing in her position, standing solo against outcries wielding sharpened blades that thirst for her blood over things that in the past that she swore upon the lives of every god that existed(the four in Helovia, the oddities that her mother worshiped without hesitance, all of them) that she has control over, for words that in her chest screamed at their highest chord they were right. Gaucho has died, her God has thrown her to the wolves of the family that she has forever trusted to have good in their hearts, and no longer is it possible for her to trust any of them.
In the belly of the wooden beast, she begs for some kind of sign that they won’t come upon her with jaws spread and tongues armed, tempted by grief and misery to take it out on the only one who seems responsible.
They aren’t worthy of her, but why is it that she cannot bring herself to abandon them? Hobgoblin reels in disgust at the thought of giving up her title of Sultana when it is still fresh in her bones. Power fuels him forth, aids him in hunting, makes him a better predator on this planet as far as he is concerned. His bonded, for once, has given him the ability to burst free from the void that she has encased and sentenced him to imprisonment with, to take out what he believes is right and what he truly deserves beneath the burning sun of her title.
They are damned to be different, agreeing to become one another’s opposites with opposite feelings: her’s with tears in soft blue eyes, broken, scared, beaten down and submissive, his passionate, dominate, controlling and hateful, thrusting all of his rage into the only thing that he’s only ever known wholly from the first second of his very life.
Orangemoon has plucked leaves from the every limb in every tree at this point, breathing a cold breeze that turns into a howling wail at the emptiness in the slim bodies. She hates how she has somehow managed to assign herself this place to patrol, looking for a man whose name reminds her of a leadership not at all eventual by the standards of the Dragon’s Throat, but at least here there is a vast void that she can tuck herself into without the crushing weight of loneliness to haunt her. Hobgoblin hates it because the cold drives deep, the leaves yell agony at his weight, because Sikeax is a hurricane in every way possible, just like himself.
A pair of raging hurricanes, neither willing to merge with the other, neither willing to step down because one lacks awareness of their strength and the other is too caught up in the glory of it to let it go.
Dawn comes with a thin frost. It lets her crush the world below her with more noise than Hobgoblin would like, his steps long silenced. They have traveled beneath the swollen belly of the orange moon like old haunts, guided only by Sikeax’s mounted lantern of a horn, whispers slipping from her lips when she feels like the quiet is too heavy to bare.
Hobgoblin, as always, never responds. Listening is enough for him when she writes novels in her monologues, going into dark depths about things that he has little interest in, hanging onto her words because if it was anyone else, he wouldn’t have even cared to remain near them long enough for their words to make into a single sentence.
Another exception in the complexity of their bond, a written code in a book a mile thick.
Birds are stirring, letting free enclosed songs that no longer feel like music to her now. Some of them pull their wings wide as the Sun drifts with lazy light, running cold hands over her thickening coat. Hobgoblin’s weight shifts recklessly from each limb, slipping into shoulders and hips as his cursed gluttony encourages him to take chase. Self-control keeps him glued to her, acting out in rare sacrifice as she treats herself with mint leaves, greedily running the leaves over her tongue and between her teeth as the taste overwhelms her.
Except, the rolling feeling of calm from her is even enough to flush over him, and he cannot find any might left in his bones to face the world in all of his glory.

OOC: DT patrol! anyone is welcome to come.
Hobgoblin is in his wendigo form.