The beast stands, gargantuan weight shifting to rest alternate legs, but he does not allow himself to calm to the point of dozing. He never relaxes in open spaces; he is too used to having enemies leap at him from behind every tree, out of every shadow. His ears pivot, constantly searching for the sound of approaching hoofbeats, and he can feel Cynder twitching as her own serpentine neck turns to devour her surroundings. She holds her flame-tail high to avoid it burning Tyradon's flanks, but every so often she lets it slacken and he feels the familiar scorching sensation and the reek of burning fur - each time, he twists his skull to shoot her a dark glare, a solemn warning to be careful. Sheepishly, she adjusts her balance to ensure her tail is kept well away from the flammable flesh of his massive body.

Suddenly, like a bird from a tree, the war-dragon takes flight. She-horse, comes her mental voice, her childish and reptilian name for mare. Instantly the behemoth is alert, all four hooves planting firmly upon the sod as Cynder circles above, using her superior eyesight to pick up the approaching stranger. Tyradon begins to move towards the newcomer, knowing it is better to be the instigator rather than risk being snuck up on. It is a mare, true to Cynder's word; naked of hideous horn or gruesome wing, black and scarred with a most curious skull-shaped marking on her face that the stallion's grey gaze snaps to immediately. As he always does when meeting someone new, he finds himself instinctively hunting for possible weaknesses to exploit in battle - a hand or so smaller than I, that right eye looks blind, scars indicate either a warrior or a careless fighter - and completes his silent assessment within the span of a second. He hardly even realises he is doing it, yet finds himself filing the mare's details away in his brain should he ever need to call on them. He has picked up this habit through years of fighting; everybody he meets is given the same swift look-over, to ensure he cannot be taken by surprise - unless, of course, she has any hidden magic that even Tyradon's keen eyes cannot detect.

His frigid gaze flashes downwards, to the two-tailed creature unlike anything the warbringer has ever seen before. He feels Cynder's innate curiosity and knows she is itching to get down to the kitsune, to sniff and prod him, but a firm mental word from the stallion warns her to keep well away. She completes another aerial circle then lands heavily on Tyradon's shoulders, peering eagerly around his thick neck and ensuring she keeps her flame-tail well away from igniting his mane. The mare's words reach the beast's ears, and a one-sided smirk flickers momentarily across his muzzle before being consumed by his usual thoughtful frown. "King, always," he says, his voice a baritone rumble that contains every inch of the authority his earth-shaking sire once possessed. "And you? Queen, or a man's plaything?" He scans her again, searching for any sign of distended stomach or swollen teats that may indicate she is somebody's broodmare.

But they are not alone for long - Cynder's head lifts to peer into the shadows, lips lifting to expose her serrated fangs as another approaches, and her posture only shifts when she sees that it is another equine. A stallion, this time, a paint with a white wolf-like creature at his heels. Cynder's claws dig deeper into Tyradon's scarred flesh as he feels her fighting against her natural urge to approach the queer creature and figure out what it is; before her regression, the behemoth would have had no qualms about letting her investigate, but she is no longer the fully-grown demon she once was. She is still growing, and he will not risk her being harmed. A soothing thought reminds her of this, and she relaxes into him, using her dextrous fingers to play with his mane whilst her yellow gaze idly flickers between the strange equines and their companions.

The stallion speaks, introducing himself and his bonded. "Tyradon, and this is Cynder," he says; he has to resist the desire to add Warbringer after his name, reminding himself that he is no longer that man. This is a new land, one where he will have to re-earn his title. Then the other speaks of safety, or lack of it, and the behemoth's attention is immediately snatched. He shifts his gargantuan frame to peer down at the younger stallion, another assessment swiftly completing itself inside his mind, and when he speaks there is evident authority in his masculine tones. "Be more informative, boy. Why is it not safe?" His voice is commanding, almost forgetting that he no longer possesses a crown, is no longer the general of his own army; he has been reduced to naught but a peasant, yet he cannot smother his inherent desire to bark orders and get things done.