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

‘I told you we would meet again.’
Each syllable grabs her by the wrists and shakes her harder, the last word reaching up to clasp her frail, thin, feminine neck in the hold of a delicate fingers, fingernails probably never having held a speck of dirt beneath them. It rings bells that play the tune of deja vu but Hobgoblin is in her head, screaming in rage, a tsunami wave that tears down the world as it crashes into her coastline. His body explodes upon impact, and she isn’t sure how to accept the sensation of his body, once solid, giving way beneath her and dissipating before she knows it’s happening.
It makes her want to cry. That’s the only way for her to explain the first time she’s truly felt Hobgoblin’s transformations, and now, she isn’t sure how to feel about the sight of them. But this isn't the time to think about that. She has to worry about something else because no longer is she harbored in the safety of the Dragon’s Throat. Mercy is a sword wielded by the owner of the voice behind her, and mercy is a blade that lets itself be passed freely as encounters and interactions will let have it.
She swallows her happiness and the beauty of their brief connection so that worry and fear can take its place.
She pulls herself away, or well, out of Hobgoblin, who has made the decision that his Wendigo form will be more of use to him in this situation. Except, much to her surprise, there is no hiss, widespread jaws to flash and announce teeth that he is more than glad to take their company into the grasp of, only the cold, hard stare of pitless eyes digging craters into the body of a mare that looks like she is already well on her way to make those holes in her. Brows knit into a tangled mess of confusion. The muscles around her eyes tense as she squints, driven into valleys and mountains like those surrounding them as her thoughts run into one another.
But Sikeax hasn’t actually made the complete motion to see Manon yet, so her observations of the situation comes simply from what Hobgoblin is putting out on display.
Which is nothing, because he isn’t really sure as of how to take someone finding him soft-hearted, not loving because dare someone come across him being one of those weak, idiotic slaves like the other companions he has come across, but nonetheless bonding and even comforting Sikeax. This isn’t something he does regularly, damn, it’s not even something he’s done before.
The feeling welling up inside of him is embarrassment, but because he has never felt it or known it before, or at least this deeply, he doesn’t know the name of it. All that he knows in this moment is that is burns in a funny kind of way. It isn’t shame, no, he knows shame more than well from what Sikeax has made him feel from the last moons, yet he can’t seem to imagine why he wants to duct away from both of their sights.
It makes things worse that Sikeax is giving him another one of her looks, like a bird has just shit on the end of her face and she doesn’t know what it is and how it happened. He tries to kill off the emotion with imagining just that, the look of surprise and the sheer stupidity that would take over her appearance.
It doesn’t work. He can’t even bring out a fucking laugh from himself, mentally and physically.
The good news is that Sikeax has turned her attention to the speaker. The tension in her facial muscles have found the slack they need and are givng away, slipping into a position that gives off little information.
She, like Hobgoblin, isn’t exactly sure as of how to feel, but what is building inside of her is far from what he is feeling. Mostly, she’s still confused. There is the faintest memory of Manon saying something to her way back when, and if her brother was actually paying attention at this very moment, then he would had indulged himself in teasing her over how those words had been used. But no, Hobgoblin is still trying to think up of a way to get out of this.
He finds it in his most useful of ways, if anything, and quickly shifts, groaning as the discomfort of the ground against his body returns, ducking his head away to the side so that he carries the appearance of a disappointed pout, not even caring to acknowledge the two women. A low huff pushes out of him for good measure, just in case neither of them can figure out how he feels right now.
Sorry is all she can try to comfort and apologize to him with. A short mumble follows but nothing else.
I really, truly appreciate that though.
Nothing, just gone.
Discomfort produces her an awkward smile to work with. She feels the aftermath of her brother’s embarrassment but some of her own because so much has happened since she met Manon in the Threshold, and the mare’s name is there, but fuzzy. It brings a strange sensation to her touch when she reaches out into her mental-scape to grab it and make use of it. The majority of discomfort returns because Manon is still beautiful, living like the world has left her untouched to avoid placing sin upon itself to change her, and that Sikeax has fallen into an abyss of disrepair and self-loathe. Sea salt breathes from her pores, her coat has paled from its past vibrancy, received from the Dragon’s Throat’s blood sands, and the braid in her tail that she had once been so proud of has fallen to pieces, now made into ugly knots only so it’ll hold itself together just a bit longer. Her prized koi has made its way back to her neck safely to escape the hideousness of her tail and the weak threads keeping it in place.
She chooses to give Manon her all though, ears rising to attention as she collects herself in a short breath of air, chest blooming in the fullness of her lungs.
“I didn’t think it was a promise. Not a lot of people make them or keep them these days.” But she can’t help but admit that it is flattering for someone to keep a promise, especially for her. There is also the fact that she has no reason for ill against her, which encourages her curiosity to want more out of this meeting, but nothing is pure.
Even she isn’t pure, no matter how she might come off. Everyone has their sins, so Sikeax cannot welcome her extravagant company with open arms and any flirting touches that Hobgoblin would suggest if he knew the full extent of their previous meeting.
She needs to know and learn, study and expect before she lets this go any further.
“Manon, right? I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s been a while and there are more faces in this land than one can count.”
It’s going to destroy her if she’s wrong.
“Can I ask you something? Why? Why are you looking for me now? I don’t think I’ve done anything to bring your attention to me this much, and it seems somewhat strange for you to search me down when we’ve only met once.”
“Silver-Hair like You.”
Don’t be crazy.
“Silver-Hair look You funny.” To which the disfigurement in her brows returns, and she doesn’t catch herself turning away to look at him with surprise and slight hate, only to receive the same, strange smile of his current form’s species painted across his lips.
She doesn’t. She whispers to him, harsh but not aggressive, enough to get the point across. Another huff, another display of ‘no fucks left to give, all your fault, Sikeax’ straight from the source.

OOC: Hobgoblin's forms go from, in this order, leopard seal, wendigo, leopard seal.