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A snarl slips free from his lips, but he says nothing; if there is no description to go on, then it cannot be helped. The winged parasites will live to infest another day. It was wrong, that they had taken a superior equine life but would never know vengeance for it - the beast paws at the hard stone ground, hoof rasping across the surface as a sigh escapes him. "May Nieque be with her," he says, voice soft. On his back, Cynder releases a low keen, a dragon's way of weeping; she liked all his herdmates, and outwardly lamented their death far more than her bonded did. They had been the dragoness' family, in the absence of any draconic kin - a puff of smoke rises from her nostrils as she rests her head between Tyradon's shoulderblades, her sorrow rampant in his mind.
He looks back to Farkas, who drops his gaze as he makes his promise - with anybody else, the leviathan would have taken that to mean he is lying, but he knows his son's problems with eye contact. "Good," he says. With that, his green war-dragon takes to the skies, gliding around all entrances to the cave to ensure they are not being spied on. "Confutatis and I share a common goal - to dominate. Although she does not share my desire to wipe out the vermin from the face of Helovia, we both thirst for control and thus have created our own regime. Herd by herd, we will continue our palisade until the whole of Helovia is beneath our reign. We have not yet worked out the details, but you will be a valuable cog in our machine." The passion and determination is evident in his voice as he speaks; he revels in a warlord's discussion of tactics and takeovers. He looks his son over, silver gaze darting from muscle to muscle. "How many fights have you partaken in?" he asks. He does not sire weak sons - any colt of his loins is taught to fight from a young age, yet he knows he was negligent during the final days of his previous reign - that will not happen again. |
[ we are made of greed ]
[ the regime ]
