The mare's assessment seems as thorough as his was, and a momentary expression of appreciation flashes across his battlescarred muzzle. She speaks, and recognition dances across the warlord's torn features. "The DemonKing," he says; it isn't a question so much as a statement. Oh, he has heard of that man, the bringer of misery who, at one stage, had half of Isilme gripped in his steel talons; long before Tyradon's time, of course, but his sire had spoken often of him - usually with disapproval that Oblivion chose to house with the horned and winged scum. But that wasn't the only tale the beast had heard of the skull-faced creature; his grandmother, Misery, had suffered a run-in with him during her early Isilmian days. She never spoke of it, not to her son or grandson, but her blue dragon Saphri shared the information with Cynder during their time in the wilderness, by way of explaining the Benevolent's terror of strange stallions. He told of an ill-fated meeting between the gentle giant and the skull-faced monster; of a time when he was but a hatchling, unable to defend her.

How Oblivion had taken her beneath him, forcefully. How he had broken her spirit and stolen her innocence without a backwards glance.

For one wild moment, the behemoth wonders if a child came from that hellbound union between giantess and demon; a secret, a bastard born of blood and fear. But he swiftly smothers the idea, as Terrador was convinced he and his twin sister were the firstborn foals of the Benevolent's womb. His emotionless grey gaze snaps to the drool that strings from the mare's mouth, hissing into the ground at her feet; magic. "I would expect no less," he says to her - what mare with sanity in her mind would choose to bed with any stallion who had no crown? Strong sire, strong foal; it was the simplest law of nature, one the beast had exploited time and time again as he sated his lusts between the willing thighs of women who worshipped the ground he walked on for his feats on the battlefield, and for the green war-dragon he had tethered to his mind. The primal act of reproduction was a reward, not a given right, a gift to those strong enough to seize it. It was for that reason that the warrior bore no ill-will towards Oblivion for what he had done to his grandmother, as he had simply been taking what was owed to him by his strength on the battlefield - Cynder hisses her disagreement, abhorring her bonded's sexist view on such matters. It is one area the linked pair disagree on, and Tyradon quickly shifts his mind away from the dangerous territory.

The mare speaks sense - the beast has always believed the same, that the world is carved into leaders and followers. He has always been a leader, and his feral gaze darts again over the skull-girl's face. "Which of those are you, daughter of Oblivion?" he asks, expression remaining stoic as he speaks in his deep, baritone rumble. The mare has snatched his attention, largely because he rarely meets such an authoritive member of the fairer sex - he is used to subservient females, hungry to do the bidding of their lord and protector, their only repayment being their undying loyalty and willingness to spread their legs at his command. He has never met a woman who could lead; never one he considers an equal, save for Cynder. This child of the DemonKing could challenge him, force him to re-evaluate his somewhat sexist beliefs, and already she has snatched his attention and clung to it like a bear trap.

His attention shifts back to Aaron. He speaks of darkness, of a spreading infection, and the only solace to be found in the depths of some caverns. The beast's nose wrinkles; he is not the sort to cower, like a rabbit waiting to be dug from his burrow. "And what is being done about this? Are you all content to quiver in your caves and wait for your home to be consumed?" Tyradon does not operate like that - he fights, he does not hide. The stallion speaks again, and the warbringer's eyes momentarily flash before returning to their passive grey hue. "No. Those who have leadership thrust upon them are poor kings, weak and indecisive rulers who care little for the crown upon their skull. The truest monarchs are those who are willing to fight and die for their cause, who seek control and seize it." The dominance is evident in his tone, and it takes a soothing caress of Cynder's mind to remind him that he is naught but a peasant here; he rules no longer.

Both equines offer an invitation, and the black beast's massive skull swings between them. The stallion is the safer option; he is likely familiar with the cave system, and he seems fairly knowledgable on Helovia's sickness. Yet the mare has intrigued him, not least in her links to Isilme; he detects a darkness in her, a lust for power that he can fully sympathise with. But he still knows little of either of them - he doesn't even know the devil woman's name, or that of her two-tailed companion. "Are you rulers, either of you? What interest do you both have in inviting me to your caverns? Are there herds here, or do you all simply exist for yourselves?" Before he makes any sort of decision, he needs to know as much as he can - he is not the sort of rash colt to enter anything blind, nor does he wish to accidentally ally himself with a herd with the wrong interests.