Scarred titan of the night; colossal hooves fall upon familiar turf, nostrils flared to inhale air that has not been blessed by his lungs for nigh on a year. Muscles bulk and burn, tail lashing against heaving flanks as the sweat of days of ardous travel pours from each stone-hewn line of his monstrous frame. He had trekked night and day to return here, to this place of ignorance plagued by mongrels and vermin; a place far too small for a man like him, with delusions ambitions of grandeur. He grew tired of its archaic ways, of its infestation that even he could not shift - and, with his vampire queen gone, he had little reason to stay.

So he left, none but his dragon by his side, to dominate where his unique talents would be more appreciated. He is a born and bred king, after all, yet his standards are higher than any throne Helovia can provide, for each crown in this godforsaken place is tainted by vermin. Instead he seized control of a herd of purebred equines leagues outside Helovia, a herd large enough and strong enough to tear down every mutated piece of shit that steps in their way. They pillage, they murder, they take and take and take and the gargoyle relishes every minute of the carnage he inflicts upon his foes. So why, then, has he returned? No, he is not here to stay. Life outside Helovia is far more suited to him, to his abilities, and with Cynder by his side and his herd at his back, he finally has the purist's empire he has always dreamed of. He has no intention of coming back here permanently, yet still he has travelled for miles, leaving his second in command - a grizzled old dog with similar blinkered views to him - temporarily in charge of his herd.

Because of her.

Cynder - his spy, his ears - notified him of her return, and it was that which made him turn tail on his herd with instructions to stay strong in his absence and await his return because he had an errand to run. Yes, it was Cynder's words that drew him back here, but it was when the scent of his red queen's potent perfume reached his flaring nostrils that he made haste. A stride that had been a steady amble transformed to a headlong gallop, forced upon him by the lust that sears his veins at the stench of Confutatis' readyness. After all, they have certain unfinished business. She left, then so did he; she has returned, and so will he, for long enough to take what she owes him. He has had mares since leaving here, has placed his righteous seed in the bellies of willing maidens, yet none have come close to how he imagines her to be. Oh, to take her battle-worn frame beneath his own! The monsters they could create! His heightened emotions bleed into his dragon, and the green empress releases a joyous squeal as she flies alongside him, beating her wings in tandem with the thundering of his hooves.

He slows, now. He can see her, and her heady aroma is tainted by the reek of decay. Cynder circles high above, sending an image of broken young bodies rotted before their time, tiny little flightless wings pinned to the soil by the weight of death. With another bellow of delight she descends, and through her gaze Tyradon sees the kitsune feasting upon the bloated flesh - the dragon lands beside her old friend, flame-tail lashing in delight as she burrows her scaled head into the belly of one of the foals to pull out a long string of guts.

But the tyrant focuses not on his dragon devouring the dead; his attention is fully on her. She is skinny, bone queen, but no less desireable for it - a rumble of an undescribable emotion bursts from the thick barrel of his chest as he lumbers forwards. "Well slayed," is his simple and far from eloquent greeting, chest heaving with the exertion of his travels but stone grey eyes dark with desire. Lips peel back from yellowed teeth, ears falling into heaving mane as he approaches, aiming a lover's bite for her shoulder - a reminder, a gift.