He moves through the inky blackness, massive frame barely visible through the shadow-ridden ground beneath his heavy hooves. He moves as silently as one of his stature can hope to - only the occasional resounding snap of a dry twig disturbs the silence of the night as it rings like a gunshot. Cynder darts between the trees in a futile attempt to keep her flaming tail from illuminating the night sky around them; she flies fast, so the fire streams like an orange flag behind her, there and gone in a blur. An avenging angel, she beats her leathery wings to propel herself forwards faster than ever before, sound itself seeming to part around her jade-clad chest.

Sweat coats the hellion's flanks and neck despite the distinct chill in the winter air. It is exhausting, trying to be subtle; Tyradon is far more accustomed to making an entrance, to charging in with sword raised and shield drawn. But their society is a secret one, for that is where its beauty lies - in the fact none, not even their own members, know the depth of his and Confutatis' nefarious plans. And oh, they certainly aren't meeting here for the sake of negotiating peace; they come to gather like a war cabinet, to plot and scheme, to drag down the establishment and replace it with their own twisted vision of perfection. The beast's thoughts are those of greed, of dominance and of reaping the rewards from weeks of hard work. Cynder's mind is thrumming with energy, despite how much she is expending flying like an emerald arrow through the forest - she is as excited as he at the prospect of finally putting their best-laid plans into action. Their consciousnesses are one and the same, and both hunger for the pleasure that only power brings.

They continue to move through the forest, like masked assassins in the night, all stealth and contained predatory energy. They reach the Rotunda, and Tyradon ascends onto the circular platform, to give him the higher ground and the position of king. He leaves room for Confutatis and her kitsune beside him, and his war-dragon crashes down on his hulking shoulders, talons locking like a puzzle piece into the ancient scars that litter his flesh. His thick neck arches and he releases a series of low snorts, each one seeking the ears of Regime members; he wants to bellow his command, to release a stallion's scream into the heavens, but reminds himself they are meeting in secret, and his booming voice would only alert any who seek to pry into their business. His quiet call released, the warbringer narrows his iron eyes and pivots his skull to watch around them, waiting.

""