The scales on the red's back bristle and erect, his white spines standing sentinel against the crimson of his body. Will his brother accept his gift? Surely he would not deny a gesture of goodwill! The black accepts, but Volterra can sense a distinct bubbling rage coming from his bonded, who thinks his extended olive branch was not taken in good grace.

But Vérzés knows better than to act on his emotions, and the height of his displeasure is shown only by the billow of frost that leaves his nostrils as he lands heavily on the giant colt's flanks to finish the segments of frozen fish that drape in strips from his fangs.

The colt's ears slither backwards at the sharp rebuke in his sister's voice. An apology forces itself up to his throat, onto the tip of his tongue; in days gone by he would have let it out into the air, a simple I'm sorry to get back into her good books and ensure he did not receive her ire. Not because he was afraid of her, but because he was afraid of losing her. Because she was all sharp words and macabre intelligence, whereas he was all kick it until it submits. All he had was his size, his strength, neither of which he would use on his sister - so he would normally just apologise, and they'd go back to their harmony.

But not this time. He's older now, his mind hardening into his own vision of intelligence. No longer is she brains and he brawn. Now his brain has sharpened, his tongue has matured, whilst her muscles flex and her strength grows - the lines between them are more blurred. They are more the same, yet more different than ever before. And he will not apologise.

But her first words were just the beginning; just the first rumble of thunder that preceeds a raging storm. She explodes, and he almost retreats with the force of her vigour - his ears slam backwards and his massive head rises to blast a steam of hot air from his nostrils, lifting into a small half-rear with the tips of his front hooves just skimming the sand. Vérzés hisses and takes to the wing again, circling high above with his long tail twisting into figure of eights behind him. Nymeria stands tall, proud, her body language screaming dominance, and again the apology fights its way into the black monolith's throat, until he snaps it back with a bellow. Now it's his turn to explode, his famed livid temper bursting out from the iron cage he keeps it in.

In front of him, the ground wobbles as a spire of rock jumps up from beneath the surface. Volterra's control of his magic sometimes slips when he's angry, and now is no exception - he can only watch as the rock sharpens into a wicked point, rising to chest-height before he can force it to crumble back into the soil. The toll on his strength is barely noticeable - not only is he stronger now, but he's so damned mad the adrenaline forces aside any semblance of discomfort.

"Control yourself, sister,," he commands, demands. "Of course you can defend yourself. But you are not invincible. Accidents can happen, like with Mother. It only takes one slip and you will be on your knees in front of a band of stallions as they take from you whatever the fuck they want. How would you like that? The thought makes me want to kill something, so fuck knows what it does to you." His voice is hard, like granite, each syllable a rumble. When he was younger and he got indignant, his tone would rise to a boyish squeak, but no more. Now it's a stony rasp, a thick, deep purr that only testosterone can bring.

"You are mine, and I am yours. I don't give a shit whether you hate me for it, but I will do anything to keep you out of harm's way. You can kick me, bite me, say whatever the hell you want to me, but I will not let you get hurt. That's why I won't even contemplate us both going in to rescue Mother - because it kills me to think what could be happening to her, but it would destroy me to think of it happening to you." The ground bubbles ominously, and with a strangled growl the beast wrestles his magic back down into its cage before he accidentally erects a whole stone forest right here on the beach.

He drags in a deep, calming breath. He hates fighting with her, but he won't back down. Not on this. She offers a suggestion, and he forces himself to focus on it. He pounds his voice into submission, trying to sap all anger from the rough tones of it. He pushes his ears forwards, crushes his muscles into relaxation. "It would have to be under the cover of darkness. They might have made her tell them that her children have a red and black dragon; they might be looking out for them." By all the spirits, is he going to have to send everybody he loves into danger? Losing his dragon would be...unthinkable. If only there wasn't a damned ocean in the way, he'd storm right over there himself and get his mother out with his own sweat, blood and steel. As any son should do.