They are not alone. Wiry hairs would raise, as would hackles on a wolf, if it were possible; but it is not. Still, she bristles, spikes of necromancy spearing out from her obsidian hide, curling tendrils of which carefully slip around and under her darlings. Mongrel whimpers as she does so, kneading at her spine with claws sharp and hard; you shouldn't, he croons to her. They might be friendly. Words of which might've sounded wiser if not for the malicious delight crawling beneath, the delicious vehemence of his hunger for blood -- no matter whom might be in possession of it.

Her weight shifts, as she twitches, unsettled by the sensation of watching eyes; ears prick, head turns, and then her attention is snagged by Cynder. What primitive caution tells her to beware subsides at the sight of glittering emerald and verdant irises, outstretched wings and bold spines. A low and hungry sigh dribbles from between her lips as she watches the dragon approach; her mongrel is stung with zealous jealousy, and it surges, acidic, through the bond. Am I not good? And it was true -- the kitsune had never been quite good enough for her. She had always wanted a dragon, a lissome, raging, fucking dragon. Thus she watches, wary but strangely at ease, allowing the green nearer than any of equine flesh would. The amulet clutched in it's talons, an amulet for her son, is a reasonable prize indeed, and her eyes glint in satisfaction as it is appropriately knotted in Volterra's mane.

The foal, the skull-faced filly, stirs as the dragon alights before her, the black egg clutched in hand-like claws. Bright, vermilion eyes peer out from beneath a shaggy albeit thin mane; Confutatis fancies she sees curiosity there, and a half-smile curls at one corner of her lips.

Amber eye blinks, scuttled across by a gilded lid; she admires him idly, the curve of the muscles of his neck as he jerks his head upwards. Tyradon is rather good eyecandy, despite her exhaustion -- well-worth the effort of staying up.

Another approaches, and nares flare, drawing in his scent with a lean hunger. Audits lash back to her bone-clad neck, armor melting out over her lissome frame; twisted ribs, black leather, a show of warmanship. Beware! And do not near, damned fool who approaches. Eyes narrow, full of distrust and distaste, lips curling back into a sneer of appropriate dislike; only until Tyradon greets him. The more nasty parts of her countenance level, but there still lingers her skepticism (in how her armor remains out and upon her hide, and in her burning, ardent gaze.) Argent. Sired from Tyradon's loins... half-brother to her twins. Up and down she looks him, scrutinizing each inch of his amber skin until she is satisfied that her children, upon growth, will be even better.

Conversation turns back to them.
Her head bobs in satisfaction; Volterra is a good name. And it's proper for him to name the boy; that's the way things should be done. Mares name fillies. Stallions name colts.
And then they grow into their names.

"The girl is Nymeria," the World Eater rumbles delectably. "Named for a legend I once heard of." Nymeria the Witch Queen. Burner of bridges, tactician, ruthless, murderous, and so bewitching enduring men whom mounted her dropped dead of exhaustion after. Her glance flits back to Argen, curiosity evident.

"I hope you will be an active part of their life too, Argen, even if we are unknownst to one another."