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

Imagine that for what feels like a thousand years that you have lived under the strict law that passion is not for you, that no matter how much you might want to feel so bravely that nothing will ever grant you the freedom of it.
And now, imagine being able to, handed a key to the gate that kept you from being what you could always be at the expense of what you wanted to be. The inexperience in your newfound willfulness, the rage of knowing that you have been deprived at what you have now been gifted with, the courage and determination you wear like a shield and sword into battle as you prepare to use with every atom of your body.
With that image is birthed Sikeax, standing in the darkness, illuminated by her ignited blade, bathed in the milkiness of moonlight, clutching herself tight in the cool air until she is cracking her porcelain frame into pieces so that soon she can trade herself into steel.
Hobgoblin is her forger, her mentor, her strength, everything she's never had that is now her's to take. No longer must she live in the shadow of a healer's frailness and secrecy, the things that make them look like miracle workers at simple things.
She is free.
"Pale Bird weak. Pale Bird stupid. Fix Pale Bird."
How?
"Dominate."
No longer will she let herself be a stranger to battle and to weakness, a victim to the hatred that her herd treats her with.
"I am not Gaucho, and I never want to be." Stone cold and sharp as nails, walking out of her lips at a casual tone that bulks itself upon the cold, silent anger brewing in her chest. The muscles beneath her beautiful, lady-like, almost pristine coat move without acknowledgement from her skin as she turns to face her.
Pale Bird.
"DOMINATE."
All reason within her steps away as her legs lurch her forward into an aggressive lunge that she's never taken to before, a virgin to battle but nonetheless carrying the intention to win, sword held bravely as she aims for something, anything, searching out a collision course with her chest, a shoulder blade, even a damned wing.
The only thing she can think of now is how it'll feel in the future to be the one inflicting the wound instead of the one curing it, no longer the saving angel.

OOC: sorry for the shortness and kinda crappiness, this is actually my first spar ever lol c':

Summary: lunges straight for Zenobia with her head held at the vertical with the intention to hit her head on with her weight to knock off her balance and (maybe) get a stab in with her horn. Aims for chest, front of the shoulder blades or the wings.
Hobgoblin is still hanging out near the shrines and watching, not really doing anything.

Attack: 1/3
Word Count: 403

Damage Summary:
Hobgoblin Form: Serval, doesn't change