For a fleeting moment, admiration licks across Nymeria's telepathic bond, a surge of sudden envy and delight as Vérzés veers towards the ocean. The arachnid's face remains composed (frigid, almost) but her heart jumps in surprise at the suddenly light-hearted emotion. Among Lilómiel's roiling seas of greed and vanity, sloth and sin, his wonderment is a lighthouse. In turn, Nym's own tended garden flutters and blooms with flowers of adulation, white and pink among emerald grass. The sanctum of Lil's beacon scrubs away at the pervasive rage that has crawled through every corner of her mind, plucks the weeds from the soil of her head.

It is only momentary.

Dripping with water, the red dragon re-emerges from the sea, frost streaming from his throat to solidify the prey in his talons. Whatever brightness or momentary respite the sister and her bonded had found went out, extinguished by Lilómiel's spite. He did not want Vérzés' leftovers—but neither would Nymeria let her bonded pass up the free food, or snub a courteous offering. With a mental shove, she forces her black off from her spine (his claws digging in harder than usual upon takeoff) into flight. Irritation reverberates through their chaotic connection. Bitterly, with a undue amount of savage strength, Lilómiel snatches up a chunk of meat, circling back to Nymeria. Smoke spirals up from his nostrils, dark and sooty against the wind-lashed sea. As his brother did, he tosses the piece of fish into the air, burning it to a crisp before swallowing it whole.

Nymeria's colossal twin snorts, and she skitters, jarred back into attentiveness. Towards him she turns a baleful red eye, but she embraces her brother anyways, too fond of his thick skull to begrudge him the familiar motion. Lids slide shut, and she falls into darkness, safe and secure with the heat of his body pressed up against hers. Here, she is sheltered, from wind and sea spray, and more importantly from the volatile emotions and roused hormones in her body. Safe. Why had she ever left his side willingly, when they belonged together?

Volterra withdraws.

Lips twist unto a scowl as she steps back, ears flicking to her skull, reproach in her gaze. Away her line of sight slides, unwitting and unwilling, fearing to see whatever might be in her twin's eyes; why would he move away? What was so wrong with them that he felt the need to shy from her touch?

I know Mother is strong. The behemoth's voice drops into a rumbling baritone, sawing at her ears. Nym resists the urge to flinch as his hoof drags across the sand, wrenching forth memories of different hooves and different bruises. There's a certain new depth (a darkness?) to Volt's voice she hasn't heard—and not just an audible depth that comes with his growth into an adult body, but a thunderstorm, one which cracks trees and breaks mountainsides, all lightning and rain and wind seething across the land. When had he grown up? When she had closed her eyes last night, she saw them in the snow, Volterra tumbling head-over-heels, laughter ringing in the air; and this night, she feared she would only see this, the man he was becoming. Perhaps, the menacing aura he had begun to project was good, at least in accordance with Mother's teachings; and she knew she had nothing to fear from her brother, that he loved her... but she didn't want to lose hold of the memories of their youth, didn't want to forget a time when Volt was carefree and dumb whereas she was sharp and clever.

In a certain way, his growth, his maturity... it changed the lay of the ground beneath her hooves. When he was younger, she was the brains—Volterra didn't quite defer to her exactly, but she certainly didn't give way to his whims in the same way he did to she. And now?

"That was a fluke," the filly proclaims in turn, eyes narrowing and lips hardening into a taut and straight line. "Don't you dare undermine her like that, Volterra." Her ears flick forward, their hooped curves taut and dark, signaling a certain growing aggression. Between the two of them something stirred, chaotic and tense, a threat, a presence; not wholesomely unfamiliar, and yet different as to what they had experienced before. It blooms in her blood, thrums in her breast—Lilómiel chirps, wings fluttering, his ruby eyes fixating on Volterra's scarred muzzle. Through their bond comes a pulsating question: again?

No.

The tension erupts.

"Fuck you, Volterra!" Nymeria snarls, stepping forwards. She bristles, seeming to swell with each passing moment; her crest flexes, her chest expands, her legs set a square stance. Upon her spine Lilómiel croons, the low and guttural sound hardly audible under the ocean slapping against the sand shore and the wind picking up over the waves. The tide begins to quicken. "How can you even say that? What has ever given you the idea I am incapable of defending myself? No man, nor woman, will have a chance against me when I'm an adult. And even now? Even now, I will never accept your aid. You know me better than that. I'm not your fucking property." She trembles, her jaw stiff and square, her eyes hard and unyielding—unforgiving.

The arachnid snorts, rolling a red eye at him. "It's obvious, isn't it? We ask our companions to reconnoiter for us. Perhaps Mongrel will be able to communicate with them using his magic."