You have heard of him? A wry chuckle flees the beast's jaws, one lip lifting to display yellowed teeth. "He fucked my grandmother," he says, as casually as though he was commenting on the weather. Cynder growls, disgusted by how flippant her bonded is about the forced submission of a female, and a relative at that. The paladin himself has never taken a mare by force - he hasn't needed to - yet he cares little about those who do. There are far viler crimes, in his opinion - such as being born horned or winged. "His deeds were known throughout Isilme - every child of my generation knew his name." His father had known, too, and spoken often and with awe of the DemonKing's war crimes. Yet they were not crimes, as in times of battle anything goes.

His dragon continues to growl in the back of her throat at Tyradon's offhand admission of his grandmother's ordeal - it had been spoken of as a secret, not some fishwife's gossip to be spread at will. He reaches the tendrils of his mind into hers and soothes her, yet can feel how tense she is beneath his mental caress. The pair are closer than father and daughter, brother and sister, yet still they argue frequently and disagree on more things than the warrior cares to admit. Their minds are constantly in contact, but neither of them can crush the willpower or opinions of the other - nor would they try to. It is a relationship of equality, and their differing genders only add to their varying opinions on several matters. Tyradon has been raised to believe in male superiority, in the dominance of his gender and the fact he has the right to objectify women at will; Cynder comes from a species where the females are every bit as strong and glorious as the males, and finds her bonded's outdated views repugnant and offensive.

Blackened ears pivot to catch Confutatis' words, her declaration, and the warbringer's muzzle twitches in a simper. You could be a king. "I was," he says, voice barely higher than a murmur - he can almost feel the weight of a crown upon his scarred skull, the warmth of a throne beneath his hooves and hear the adoration of a hundred peasants in his greedy auds. His frigid gaze snaps to her lips, bubbling and frothing with an unknown substance; he wonders at the burn it would cause upon the body of a foe. He devours every word that comes from her acid-soaked mouth, his intrigue and curiosity growing by the second, yet his attention is once more stolen by the painted stallion. His ears flatten to his skull, lost in the tangled folds of his mane; foolish boy. "It is everything," he spits, eyes flashing like chips of flint. "Once your balls drop you will realise that true glory comes only from leading, not following. Any who try to stop the rise will be crushed - in Nieque's name I will see it happen." Cynder's anger shifts to Aaron and his hellhound, her flame-tipped tail thrashing back and forth like an angered cat. Tongues of fire lap at the stallion's scarred back, but he barely notices - a plume of smoke flees the war-dragon's nostrils and rises above their heads until it disappears into the darkness.

With a final snort of contempt, he looks back to the mare. "Show me the way, daughter of demons," he says, massive frame shifting in preparation to leave. He hungers to know more about her, about her plans - if indeed she has any, and she is not merely bluffing - and obligingly Cynder takes to the skies to scan ahead, her body a green flash in the heavens above them.