Sometimes he wonders what it's like to fly. When he was a green boy - and oh, this memory burns him with shame to his very core - he sometimes envied the pegasi their wings, because he could think of nothing better than flying beside his dragon, exploring the highest reaches of the world together. Of course, once he'd matured he'd realised the error of his ways and never allowed such things to cross his mind again - horses were meant to be earthbound, not winged. It had been a childish fancy, one he ensured he never allowed himself to feel again. The things are unnatural, foul feathered protuberances from one's shoulders, and heaven knows what they did to the bones to make one light enough to fly.

He watches the stranger's reaction to his first words, partly wondering - and, yes, hoping - that she would lose her temper and attack him, because that would give him an excuse to use violence right back. It couldn't jeapordise his quest if it was in self-defence, after all. He was never mine, she says, and the beast quirks a brow. "Ah, a man," he rumbles back. It was always a man with mares, wasn't it? To add to his racism, the bastard was mildly - or not-so-mildly - sexist as well, just to ensure he was as blinkered and prejudiced as it was possible to be. Why could women not gather than stallions had little interest in anything but the heat between their thighs? They always wanted commitment, kind words and gentle caresses, which is why Tyradon has always been particularly careful to let his lovers know that he is not the sort to bring flowers or write soppy limericks. If more mares took his attitude to life then the world would be a far easier place, but he says none of this - instead he rearranges his face into what he hopes is a sympathetic, rather than pained, expression.

She says that she doubts he knew him, and Tyradon very much agrees, especially if he is winged like her. But he has to find some way to force this forbidden friendship, and perhaps helping her lament over her lost lover is the best way to do that. "Try me," he says, his voice as pleasant as he can possibly make it. Cynder visibly rolls her eyes and nestles closer into his mane, her amusement at his predicament evident.