Had this been any other time, then possibly Aithniel might have been greeted with something entirely different. A sense of passion, a desire to thrust her into battle so gallantly without even a second thought at the drive to show that Sikeax intended to take up her title as militarist Sultana with great will, at least the lingering feeling of hatred that had inhabited the dark, closed-off rooms of her head due to the mare’s treatment of her first child that Hobgoblin could have taken like a drug to urge her into battle.
But she is broken like glass, shattering further with each step because the Dragon’s Throat that she is being forced to lead is nothing near the one that she had loved so dearly. Friendly faces know looked upon her as if their eyes could open canyons in her.
She’s not their queen, and it’s obvious more now than ever it was. Aithniel’s voice drives the nail into the wood, a hammer that claims justice be weighed down atop her shoulders.
And yet where is the trial? Where are her accusations? What has she done wrong other than mourn with the herd, a basic thing that she is now denied while everyone around her does so?
“Stupid bird.”
Hobgoblin’s chiming does nothing to ease out the cold, stiff expression etched into the bones that sculpt her face. Glaciers fill up her eye sockets, tracing any motion that the winged mare makes as she wails useless words into the air that fall into the caves of her ears, empty.
We are no longer part of the Dragon’s Throat.
Nothing rolls out of her brother. Silence replaces itself with dread as she holds her ground with locked knees, drowning in the unsteadiness of his loss of vibrancy.
“I’ve failed.” Each syllable slips off of her tongue like she intends to feel some sort of sadness with it, but Sikeax has always been pure, been raw, been wild with her emotions, and there are no tears to accompany what she tries to perceive.
“I’ve failed in succumbing to what you want because you give me no obvious reason to step down. But you?”
Anticipation bubbles in the upper reaches of her rib cage, like smoke rising from a volcano against her spine as Hobgoblin hunts for a place to thrive in her, not exactly desperate but needy.
“You and this entire herd, you have failed Gaucho and the Sun God.”
Wildfire ignites. Searing hot passion courses in her veins like lava as a voice burns through her.
“DESTROY.”
Has she not always been the one to take orders, so who is she to deny a simple request?

OOC: hardcore rushed oops.

Sikeax accepts the challenge and allows Aithniel to have the first attack. She's standing no more than 40ft from Aith and watching at the moment.
Attack: 0/4
Hobgoblin Form: Serval, standing off to the side.
Word Count: 451

also if you have any trouble reading this table or anything let me know so I can switch over to something else!