It made my whole skin itch to leave the Edge, but it ain’t like I was doing much by myself to hold the fort down; if anything went down we were fucked anyways, and besides, it was good to know what was going on and being said anyway. So me ‘n Cheek went when we were called (ugh) coming to the place where shit was happening, but at least Kisamoa was a nice enough asshole to wait until it was thawing out before making us run errands. I might not know the dude but he’s an honorary bro just for that.

My brow furrowed as I saw Kis (the tall brown assholey one) and Volterra within striking distance, but I also knew her wrath was as dead as her memories of him, so he wasn’t in danger of being killed--just heartbroken, and that made me sad for him, but I had told the big black bastard to stay away and I guess fuck my advice, right? I ain’t mad at him; it’s a hard thing to let go. But it wasn’t a thing I could help him with--so I shrugged and my chest pulled sadly but there was no use dwelling on it. I left him to his ruin.

So anyway there goes Kisamoa (the rad dude) talking some shit about clean up and bones and a land that was killed by disease. My brow furrowed a bit more as he tasked us with collecting bones accumulated around the area and generally performing a police-call. “Just loose bones, right? We ain’t diggin’ up no graves, are we?” He hadn’t specified--and there was a place not too far from here where there were a lot of graves for one, holy reason, but people still worshiped that complication, so. I ‘unno.

I couldn’t shake the sense of unease that clawed my belly whenever I thought about the Dead place, and the sickness that had killed it in the first place; that awful year of disease and darkness and putrid betrayal. I’m glad Cheek was born well after that bullshit.

I wasn’t sure if I liked the idea of fuckin’ around with dead things like this; I wondered if we should just let it rest. But I wasn’t sure how hard I should wonder it.


"talk"

Quit Hollerin' "Why God?", he ain't got shit to do with it.

well someday soon when the spring brings the sun
i'll sleep, i'll finally
feel better when the winter's gone

Since her loss of crown, or maybe back to when Gaucho died, when her family had turned against her because she is not a God and cannot turn over the workings of death so that they simply do not happen anymore, all for a man who is the closest thing to God that they had, she has run purely on instinct and wits, careful of everything. Not in the sense that she is fearful, but in the mind that the world is limitless, and anything is possible without the protection of a herd.
Hobgoblin thrives in these conditions, and while they may contradict, brute force and brains, they make good use of it.
It is so that free of the binds of her herd, that wretched place in the south that Hobgoblin raises a metaphorical mental head towards in attention if it’s mentioned in her conscious, that she is now able to focus on what is going on in the world. She doesn’t have to think of them. She doesn’t have to think of anyone except herself and Hobgoblin.
And what a joy it has promised itself in being.
She now has the chance to look in on things. Her brother gives her interests some of his own, captivated in this lifestyle as Sikeax chooses to learn on the beast that her herd had decided to move against her on the lack of knowledge of.
They said it came from the sea, and with their ties held so heavily to that, it can’t go unnoticed.
Now come to imagine the pair’s confusion at the sudden gathering of bodies, only to have it bleed into a mess of curiosity and caution. Sikeax has every reason in the world to avoid any members of the Dragon’s Throat, save her son and Volterra.
It isn’t held in very long.
Hobgoblin moves ahead of her like another set of eyes and ears, taking in the bodies around him as Sikeax slips in from behind the gathering mass. A moment is spared to take a look at the creature that they’ve warned her about in the past. Disgust ripples across his face.
“No.” He proclaims in obvious dislike of the creature. Images roll through her head as he plays her a film, showing pictures of this sea beast’s appearance, those in the crowd, Tyrath whose presence makes her heart ache at the sight and Hobgoblin pine for the company of, but they cannot so easily give up what they’ve achieved.
They can find him any other time. They know exactly where to look when the time comes.
What the beast comes to is what solidifies her mutual feelings of dislike towards, well, whatever it is.
Heat warms up in him until he can't ignore it anymore, rising up in his skin as the need to shift bubbles up inside of him. Anger burns through his core like a torch in the darkness, untouched by light and bewildered by the arrival of such a thing so suddenly, contouring his facial features into those that mimic slight discomfort that is quickly turning into agony.
Somewhere, where he can't see her but if he tries hard enough can find her, Sikeax is fuming beneath the weight of something that he doesn't know what is, and it is not like recently that she hasn't been more open with things about herself.
It catches him so far off guard that he is not completely prepared in handling the situation as the emotions hum in his body like an earthquake. It makes his fluid body rattle and tense, only to release seconds later into a repeat of the process.
In the belly of the crowd, he does what he believes will allow him the ability to cope.
His body becomes a blur of its making, breaking apart, coming back together within short seconds as the image of him expands into a blur of a liquid, holding this state for a blink of an eye until he finds the seclusion of one of his typical forms, residing in its comfort only momentarily before the need rises again.
"Sia."
The plea goes unacknowledged.
"No." The height in her voice is enough for those in her general vicinity to catch wind of, deepened with the depth of her emotions.
Hobgoblin gasps for air while he drowns into the turmoil of their bond, an ocean now harassed and urged onward by hatred in the form of storms when lately it has been nothing but smooth seas, the rocking of the waves that keeps things following.
"Why?"
He asks with panic and fear, scared like an abandoned child as he goes for her, lunging forward on slender legs coloured with midnight, paws digging into the ground as his coping method begins to work, much to his relief.
Sikeax is a statue when he makes it back to her, made of sandstone and clouded sapphires that stare off into the creature's direction, still burning, but cold, distant, looking like storm clouds that threaten with lightning across the northern sea when things are too bleak on shore. Something that he's grown accustom to the sight of, but not with her.
"What?
The lack of vocabulary skills that he holds disables him from putting the worry and pain of this to her regardless of how much he would like to let her know that she is making him suffer because she is suffering herself, just not in a way that he has seen before.
"Please."
Any other time and Hobgoblin would have chosen to cut her away, to shield himself from the infliction he must suffer through, but this? He feels as if there is no way to keep himself from it.
So he is there, below her, at her feet and living in sudden misery at something that she has repressed and told herself never happened, and why? Because facts have suddenly appeared proving that it did happen, that something in that lost part of her mind was important, that she was going to have to accept it one way or another?
How childish, immature, idiotic of her that she cannot face the world when it was all around her, carrying on and throwing punches in her face that have knowledge and facts to prove it contained in the balls of its fists.
Neither of them can take it anymore, and as if she is simply following the commands of the creature and attempting to ignore Hobgoblin's outburst, she is gone, turning away from the bodies and the voices and the faces that belong to those that she knows with shame and denial tucked in her, not in her head or heart but just somewhere in her, probably in the soul, walking with her head held low and her gait slow, back into the fray.

OOC: hobgoblin is in his serval form for all the times that he actually holds a steady form, but during his panic you're more than welcome to see him in any of his set forms.


"Talk."