He is as bemused as Kahlua as to why the Earth God chose him, of everyone, to bestow a quest upon. Oh, he's glad, of course, because it gives him a chance to earn back his missing magic and perhaps even advance its ability, but he cannot help but wonder if the God is trying to lure him into some kind of trap. Eight years of consistent paranoia ensure the dragon king is unable to simply take something at face value; he suspects an ulterior motive. But he had offered a nod of acknowledgement to the God, a sneer of amusement to Aurelia, the loudmothed harlot that was not even worth the sweat on his flanks that it would take to crush her, and left. He will complete his quest, and see what happens - as difficult as it will be shelving his racism, the warlord will do next to anything for the sake of power.

Out of morbid curiosity, he follows Kahlua, the equine mare who seems so...wary of him. The beast is the sort of man who enjoys the fear of others being directed at him - he likes to see quivering, intimidated individuals bending to his iron will, thrives on forced respect and stolen loyalty. But, of their two meetings, he could not recall doing anything particularly unpleasant aside from offering a few sharp words that weren't even aimed at her - certainly nothing that should make the attractive girl afraid of him. She is pure, after all, with no mutation on her forehead or shoulder, and she could be a useful addition to the Regime if he can earn her trust - or, failing that, her bending the knee due to sheer fear. So he follows her, massive frame seeking to draw up close to her as they wander through the meadow, steel gaze fixing on her with the smallest of quirked brows. "You needn't smile just for my benefit," he murmurs, baritone voice neutral as he flicks his gaze across the grin so falsely attached to that attractive muzzle of hers. He is the connieseur of fake smiles and forced jovialty, of masks and masquerades, and he wonders what emotion she's so keen to hide.

Cynder stretches on his back, every sinew on her scaled body pulsing as she clambers up his neck to perch between his ears, eyeing Kahlua with a tilted head. "I don't believe we've officially met - I am Tyradon, and this is Cynder." The God of the Earth spoke his name, of course, but it isn't the same as a proper greeting from man to woman; he eyes her, body language as neutral as he can make it whilst still ensuring he pushes into her personal space just enough to try and assert his masculine authority.