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FIRE AND BLOOD! A small smile twists into life on his scarred muzzle at Farkas' swift rebuke. "Good. You will need to use all of them." A battle was not the simple use of sight, the anticipation of a foe's next move; it was the sound of hooves thudding against bloodied soil, the smell of sweat and pain, the taste of hatred. To be a competent warrior, all of those senses needed to be honed to perfection. Tyradon had the added bonus of Cynder's senses as well, and her eyesight was vastly superior to his - she could note the smallest twitch of a muscle long before her brutal bonded could. Alone they were formidable - together they were unstoppable. He offers to do anything, even war, and the sire's gargantuan skull dips in a pleased nod. Willingness to learn, to be taught, is the first step to superiority. At his son's next question, the beast casts a furtive glance around them. The darkness can still be felt, in the shadow cast by every tree; the last thing he needs is for himself or his son to become infected. As much as he loathes the notion of fleeing to safety, he knows they will able to talk more at length once they are in the Sanctuary, safe from the nefarious intentions of Helovia's infected residents. "As soon as possible. First, we must head to the caves, where we can talk in peace. There is a darkness spreading through Helovia, Farkas - a disease, and for once it is not the doing of the horned and winged." The scum. His muzzle wrinkles in disgust, even hating how the words feel on his tongue. "Come." The command falls from the leviathan's blackened lips as it has so many times before; he turns, expecting his son to follow. Cynder springs from her tree and catches herself on the fanned canopy of her wings, gliding high above the pair to keep a keen eye out for any marauding demons. |
[ we are made of greed ]
[ the regime ]
