tyrath

Dusty cloven hooves carried him leisurely through the thick brush and twisting branches, he didn't visit the Deep Forest often, but it proved to be a suitable place for the young stallion to be alone with his thoughts. The revelation of Kisamoa being Kaos was still fresh in his mind, as was the jagged, grizzly wound which raked down his neck to his chest. The scabs had began to slough off, revealing the fresh pink of scars he'd gallantly wear. While they had been beaten back, he had fought, he'd thrown himself into harms way to try and save his family. The loss and wounded pride is lessened by that notion, his head raised higher for it.

Still, a wisp voice boomed somewhere in the back of his mind, how could they have been so blind? How did the Gods not see it? His fanged maw clenched tight. An ember filled snort answered the internal voice, displeasure clearly written on his chiselled features. Did he always brood this much? He'd always been such a melancholic child, while it had lessened in favor of more mature thoughts and interests, a cocktail of hormones and jarring thoughts which barreled through his mind at inappropriate moments. His next breath comes out as a huffed sigh, another lick of embers plumed from his illuminated nostrils.

Before he realized it, he's deeper than he's ever dared to step within the gnarled forest. The wicked branches twisted and locked overhead, interrupted by brief pockets of open space to allow a weary soul on tired wings to descend. Odd, but not enough to strike him to the core. Helovia is filled with all manner of not-so-usual things. A pock marked canopy whose branches are scarred and scorched mean little to him. That is until his crimson pits spied something glittering just out of sight, a vibrant streak against an otherwise bleak landscape. Curious, he angled himself to take his muscular form toward the glittering creation barely visible through the thorny, bearded head lowered enough that the long tangled strands of his mismatched hair drag against the forest floor.
He found his answer soon enough, a nest. Worse for wear, the branches and other bedding has wilted without attention. The object of his desire is a dragonscale and his ears instinctively snapped forward, could it be? Plenty of them glitter out between the snapped twigs and careful placed stones, there had been a Queen here once upon a time. Gargatuan and great, beautiful and deadly. She's long gone by the looks of it, the cracked and discarded egg shells are scattered like broken diamonds as he stilled by the large creation. All her hatchlings have flown. Disappointment is a bitter pill to swallow, but he swallowed it anyway. It was still a discovery he intended to thoroughly explore. 

Tyrath's horned head tilted as he stepped around it carefully, eyes intently drinking in every deep gash in the earth, the scorch marks which littered the surrounding barren patch the dragonness had once claimed as her own. He barely noticed the slight noise which eminated from the depths of the nest, until it chipped the silence, an ear reflexively tilted toward it. A scavenger perhaps? He wouldn't put it past the forest creatures to come sniffing into a nest hoping for scraps, abandoned eggs or hatchlings who couldn't earn their wings. Upper lip half-curled in disgust, it dropped with another persistent noise. His eyes narrowed in on the stack of discarded eggshells while he pulled himself into the impressive pit. The Prince's muzzle is dropped in favor of nudging through the ruined pieces of shell, tipped out of the way until his nostrils flared against something solid, smooth, untouched.


An Egg. One last egg and his heart soars. Flames within his chest burned brighter with the revelation, the silhouette of his ribcage illuminated brighter against his skin. Slowly, he picked away at the prison it's been hidden beneath, until it's free, quivering as little chirped noises hissed and spat within it's confines. "You can do it." He uttered, his head remained level with it, critically he assessed each little detail right down to how the egg tilted to the left with his words. The encouragement appeared to work after a moment, the smooth surface cracked in little hairline fissues as the body coiled and battered against it, the tone of the noise changes into something etched with fierce determination and he found himself grinning.

It had spirit, he'd give it that.

Finally, minutes that appeared to drag too long for the stallion's tastes, sped back up with a final punctuated crack as a small red taloned paw broke through, grasped and found purchase against the tender flesh of his muzzle. He can't quite describe the emotions, the connection that burst over his senses at the touch. The determination to be free, the hunger, the curiosity — it's all there, rooted in his chest and mind, a second pulse which burned an equally brilliant hue. A second paw soon joined the first, while an elongated muzzle nudged through the cracks, his body finally urged him to pull away at the sharp pinch. An indignant squawk is the hatchling's reply as he's unceremoniously pulled from his egg, body immediately furled under his jaw as his tail wrapped firmly around the Tribrid's face.

"That hurt." The stallion grumbled half-heartedly, his fanged maw pulled into grin. The Dragon is less than impressed, the pointed jab which spiked through his mind is enough to confirm it as he set about dragging himself up his head to his crowns. Checking, assessing, determining his worth as a bonded already. Deciding if the Tribrid is worth his attention, he's not quite used to being looked over like this and he's unable to help the slight growl of his own which rumbled in his heavily scarred chest. The Dragonling himself is quite impressive, his red scales glitter a ruby hue, darker nubs of obsidian line the sides of his head, his jawline and the iconic spot behind his temples. A crown fit for a king dressed in red instead of gold. His eyes are a brilliant shade of icy white, not a blemish of another colour within their iris' depths. His front paws are tucked neatly to his sides, emphasis given on his wings as they grasped their fingers against the bony texture of his own horns. Long tail wrapped possessively around his perch, the tip of his tail poking languidly at the set of gold chains clasped to his newfound throne. He promises to be like his fathers red in size, if he's anything to go by now, and the thought is a pleasant one.

"Harcos." He doesn't quite know why he settled addressing the Dragon as such, but it caught his attention. Harcos' gaze shifted immediately to him, rather than focus on his own devices — a toothy grin plastered on his scaled face as he nodded. A silent approval of the name chosen for him. "Harcos it is then." He reaffirmed, the grin never faltered once from his skull marked features.    


"Talk."

This is the Hour of Twilight,

and all will burn