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

There’s no sorrow in her chest, making up what one would expect to look like a thin layer of dust of everything in there. She feels as if she hasn’t returned to the Dragon’s Throat in many moons but when in reality, it has probably been nothing more than a full cycle of the moon.
With nothing to usher her back into the now-dead warmth of the desert, she lives elsewhere, as she pleases, with only Hobgoblin to accompany her, haunted with the reminder that soon, soon it must all end, and something new will have to begin.
The only actually comes of her knowledge when the passing of bodies is great, steadily growing into numbers that make her think of a herd meeting, but no herd is this large, and she has no expectation in the thought that it might be all of the herds convening.
It’d be a stupid thought anyway.
Curiosity and some annoyance is what drives her to follow. All she can think of these days is how to avoid people, burdening scars from their knives and voices alike. They aren’t sported in the sense that her body is littered with the hatred of a damned herd, teeth marks and stab wounds, but tucked away in her brain, not made to be shown but to be acted with, used like masks and cloaks.
Hobgoblin has some like to it, now that they’re alone. There are less to have to withstand, and he can focus on anything as he pleases.
They arrive only to miss the first portion of gift giving, turning her head with stone eyes pointed in the direction of the tree. She remembers it, yes, and so does Hobgoblin, but the masses are tempting her to give it up, running her gaze over the group.
Volterra, with a new child that sours her stomach a bit because has he not learned yet, Tyrath with his father, who she wonders if he is ashamed of her, if he’ll miss her, if he’ll hate her for what she’s doing to escape her unjust sins. Sacre’s presence makes her feel in a way that words won’t describe. A cocktail of longing for he was always something so young and aged in her head, a friendship they didn’t think much about but one she recalls in soft youth and brief,
happy flashbacks, the comfort of knowing that he is still alive and obviously doing well, but the misery of feeling that he isn’t a portion of her life anymore, that he might look down upon her with her mistakes.
She takes @Rikyn as company by the end of her emotions under the notion that he is alone, off to the side and far from prying eyes, and maybe a bit more comforting in that he has no reason to hate her, or at least as she can come to terms with.
It ties a knot up in her in that he isn’t a child anymore. Innocent, looking as if she has never done a single thing wrong in her life and never will, like she is purity and grace and femininity in a clam shell, shaped in a pearl.
Or that’s how she felt about then, smile painted with sunlight and laughter filled with bird songs at a party long forgotten and at a place never openly remembered.
“Rikyn.”
She put his name on her lips like rose petals, denying her urge to address him as Ryn, something she’s sure he’s forgotten.
By his side, any feeling of might is lost, the weight of a crown lost shed from her head and Hobgoblin’s disinterest ignored. He’s already fled her, slipping through the crowd to get a better view of the tree and its ornaments.
“How have you been?”
Because I’ve been terrible.

OOC: NOT LATE PROMISE JUST CLOSE
also bunnie don't mind me! i couldn't resist the urge
Hobgoblin is in his serval form.