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A true goblin never does as he's told, never tells as he's done, and never follows a rule. (Least of all, this one).
"I apologise profusely, and — I will make it up to you in the future. But for now, please, go to them. Leave me here."
It doesn't come naturally to Hob — the goblin manner of giving in to uninhibited id. Now though, for one brief moment, the experience of being demanded of, told to go against his wishes, hits some dulled and well-buried nerve. For once, he reacts without thinking.
Rue turns to leave and again finds their arm caught in a long, furred claw. This time, though, there is no immediate relinquishing of the grip.
The whisper of an intake of breath — quiet, but not enough to elude honed goblin senses — brings with it a sharp rush of satisfaction. Instead of allowing himself to retreat into apology and polite formality, Hob throws himself headlong into the feeling. Revels in it.
Before, Hob had been caught off guard that the opinion of a goblin could elicit such a reaction from a scion of the Court of Wonders. Now, he feels a compulsion to find out what other reactions he can draw from the usually perfectly composed fey.
"Do not mistake my cordial respect for subservience, game master." His voice is pitched low, coloured by the threat of a growl. "You may be Mistrex of the Bloom, but none save the goblin king himself command me."
There's a heavy moment of silence. As it draws longer the weight of what he just said begins to dawn on Hob, heat rising under the stiff collar of his uniform. The urge to pull back redoubles, briefly, until Rue flushes, bashfully dropping their gaze, and cements his resolve.
"My apologies." Their voice is breathy, the barest hint of a stutter, "I should not have presumed to order the hero of Briar Falls."
There's a feeling of barrelling down a hill, of running even while already going too fast because stopping now would lead to a fall. Goblins make messes of what they desire, and clean them up later if it suits them. The façade of the calmly collected master of ceremonies has fully cracked now, and Hob wants to see what's underneath.
Hob wants to make a mess.
His grin splits to show the full, alarming complement of goblin teeth. A gentle pull is enough to bring Rue closer. They reflexively tilt their head back to meet Hob's eyes, unconsciously baring their neck to him, and the deep rumbling in his chest intensifies. It's hard for a creature of Hob's stature not to loom, and Hob's not trying.
But there's such a stark look of vulnerability on Rue's face that it finally gives Hob pause. Some secret Hob was not party to had pushed them to take their leave, even as they admitted to wanting a moment of connection. And the hunt and duty were still calling.
For a long breath their gazes hold each other pinned, long enough for whatever wild thing had overtaken him to slacken its grip. Finally, almost regretfully, Hob makes a decision.
"We will conclude this conversation at a later date, Delloso." With his free hand, Hob effortlessly plucks a golden tassel from his epaulette, and presses it delicately into Rue's palm. Then, in a final moment of recklessness, Hob leans in close. "I hope your promised future act of penance satisfies."
Hob straightens, already slipping back into the comfortable refuge of formality as he releases Rue. To their immense credit they manage to regain enough composure to step back and collect themself.
"As you say, Captain," they incline their head gracefully, "a later date."
"Then, I shall rejoin the hunt." Hob salutes briskly, all appearance of propriety restored, then wavers. "Good day, Rue. I hope you find what you're looking for."
A long-legged leap carries him straight up into the canopy and out of sight.