It had been Volterra's scent Lilómiel had caught first, a sweat-dampened reek of horseflesh and earth, soil and odorous stink; and then, painted, traced, onto the cozy scent of homeliness was blood, salt and iron, tainting everything Nymeria loved. Through his nostrils she had breathed in that mingling stench, a multi-layered confection which was full of information to be digested and swallowed, remembered.

There had been no linger of distress about it, no indication of pain or unfair duress which may have been attributed to him being injured, but the blood was there, undeniable. And Lil's concern, his worry, had been hidden beneath a skin of lethargic apathy, but there—no matter how he tried to hide it. She couldn't understand him; couldn't understand the impossible, convoluted emotions that ran beneath his scaled skin, his envy, his jealousy, and his caring, all treaded together in an indecipherable pattern, no matter how she tried. Still, she knew—she recognized—that if Lilómiel was worried, the situation was grave. It wasn't often the black bothered to extend his protectiveness of Nymeria towards Volterra, not unless it was a serious matter indeed.

There had been only the faintest, vaguest sensation of resignation from her bonded's side before they moved north together. Above her he wheeled, a sooty silhouette of humming and lethal energy, coiled exuberance and burning impatience, wings stretched wide and eagle eyes fastened on the horizon. It echoed through their connection, that impatience, until it quickened her stride too, forced her forwards into a snappy canter.

Wind pressed into her face, tangled in her steadily-growing locks, clutched and whistled by her ears. A second roar echoed in the back of her mind, a low rumble of the breeze snarling by Lilómiel's tattered appendages; her breath hitched, lids sliding close together to shield ruby retinas from the cold of the air. Still, it brought tears to her eyes, dampened scarlet; but she couldn't halt to worry about self-image, about what weakness tears might seem to represent.

There was smoke in the distance, a rising pillar of ash and gray, and fear shot through her, terror of what ice on fire might mean.
Volterra. What was he doing?!

And then an image surged through her head, startlingly vivid, enough to take over her eyes and slam her into Lilómiel's body. From his vantage point, she observed that around a bend of twisted and knotted rock there was—a mass of bodies, pressed tightly together. In that thick she recognized (even through the warped and bizarre vision of a predator) of her brother, robust and weighty even from here. A persimmous sigh slipped from atwixt her lips, a deep and savage exhale of both frustration and relief. Naturally. Even unwittingly, her twin managed to worry her.

Her pace slowed as she unraveled the thick bonds between her and her dragon, enough so that she might return to her own vessel unhitched. It was but a few minutes longer before she rounded the curve (heart still thundering too loudly for her liking, legs still too quivery) and saw the scene with her own eyes.

They were clustered around something—the source of the smoke. Eyes narrow thoughtfully, lips twisting, and the young girl slows to an almost idle trot, careful scarlet eyes picking out her brother. Lips move soundlessly, framing prayers unsaid and unheard, for his safety—that the blood she scented on the breeze was some kind of sham. Brows narrow; her muzzle tightens reflectively, disapprovingly. It doesn't seem that Volt's hurt...

Without giving much thought to the consequences, she cuts her way through the press of bodies, jostling through the crowd until she's at her brother's side. She puts her left shoulder forward, aiming to bump it against Volterra's right shoulder—a bratty greeting indeed, accompanied by: "Volt."

Lilómiel whistled nervously from above, circling downwards with cusped wings to come closer to the hole. A series of images flash through her head: a glint of red, white scales, dragons. Jaws part, confusion spreading her eyelids wide—gold?
The black rumbles his confirmation, followed by a piqued curiosity.

He wants her to do something, of course. The hierachy—the draconian hierachy alone demands it, never mind Nymeria's own sense of duty.

After a few minutes of careful listening, a desperate attempt to understand, the girl huffs, grumbles beneath her breath. Pupils shift, resting on Volterra thoughtfully; and then swivel, glancing over the amassed bodies. Jowls suck, teeth coming to nibble gently over her lower lip. Others are digging—scraping away (somewhat ineffectively) at the icy soil; she can't imagine that's particularly helpful, but perhaps she can do something to help out. Down she presses, searches, looking for the magic that she's found and toyed with, developed and trained as her brother has worked his body physically; the part of her that allows fluids to burn or chill around her.

Carefully, tentatively, she lets the heat spiral out from her forehooves, focusing on each individual drop of frozen liquid—attempting to warm the fluids, as is her gift.

Lilómiel folds his wings in tightly to his body, and flickers through the hole to join the other two dragons on the inside. His ruby eyes settle on Gwyneverre, contempt ringing clarion through his mind, disgust and abhorrence at her selfishness; and then swings towards the red offering a gift to the albino. Torn, twisted between need to defend and placate, he hangs, uncertain; and then he makes his choice. With a soft huff remniscient of his companion's own expression of annoyance aboveground, the black stretches his wings and slams forwards, attempting to crack his forepaws into Gwyneverre's right hip and fasten his teeth around the joint of her right wing.
No white should be allowed to steal a gold. Didn't she understand the hierachy?

If anyone was to take the egg out, it should the RED.