He thinks often of his youth, of his parents, and he sometimes wonders how different his life would have been had he not allowed his sire to pollute his mind. He doubted he would have grown to be so racist, a murderer of anything different, if he had stayed with his dam. Yet he cannot dwell - he has lived his life how he has, and would not change it for anything. He was forced to grow up fast with his father's teachings, and perhaps that aided him throughout the following years. He dreams often of his mother, but more often than not it transforms into a nightmare, where the woman is screaming as a unicorn stallion has his way with her. He always wakes in a cold sweat, but once the fog of unconsciousness lifts, he wonders if it was wishful thinking rather than a nightmare - it hurts far more that Soleil gave herself willingly to the horned beast.

Cynder rests on his back, asleep - she only ever sleeps on him or near him, lacking the aloof side that some dragons possess. He enjoys the heat of her scaled body against his flesh, but winces occasionally as her hanging flame-tail rustles against the tender underside of his leg, leaving scorch marks in its wake. His massive hooves clop gently against the hard ground, echoing through the tunnels to preceed the leviathan's movements. As he walks he hears a voice, one that sets his blood to freezing and his heart fluttering like a newborn bird in his thick chest; it's her. His mother. After nigh on six years without her, she is here - and, judging by the lonely warbles of her voice, she is alone. He doesn't recognise the names she mentions, save for Paladin's and his own - he wonders if they are her children, her mongrel offspring, and the thought fills him with an emotion he cannot process.

At the sound of his troubled thoughts, Cynder snaps awake, and scurries up Tyradon's muscular neck to play with his mane in a way she knows comforts him. After eight years with her bonded, she is aware of the turmoil he has faced with his family, and he knows without her saying that she is there for him. Slowly he walks towards his dam, until his eyes can rest on her - she looks just like she did when she had him, although she must be older than a decade now. "Cael," he says, his voice booming through the caves. How could she have forgotten her secondborn son, the beast's oldest and closest brother? He approaches her tenatively, noting that he is now taller than her - it seems like just yesterday that he was a colt barely reaching her knee. He reaches out his scarred muzzle, blowing softly out of his nostrils as he seeks to touch it to her own. "Mother," he greets, a sudden expression of warmth taking over his handsome features to replace their normally stoic facade. "It's been too long." Cynder peers between his ears, humming gently.

A heady mixture of fear and anticipation brews in his chest; he finds himself pawing at the stony ground with a forehoof, irritating himself with the rasping sound. He knows not of Cael's death, and does not notice his mother turning morose - he assumes his little brother is alive and well somewhere, distant but happy. The way she says his own name...he feels his vision blur, and feels a deep sense of disgust in himself for his sudden weakness. The son of the Earthmover does not cry! Her muzzle touches his own and he finds himself enjoying the sensation, the first time he has touched family in nearly six years. Too long. He has not been alone in the intervening years, yet he hasn't seen any related to him by blood since he left Anarore at the green age of two.

She says she's missed him, and compliments his growth. He finds himself grinning - there isn't a boy alive that doesn't glow when his mother says something remotely complimentary, and he finds himself puffing out his massive chest arrogantly. "I've missed you too," he says, his normally gravelly voice softening. Cynder clambers further up his neck until she is sat fully between his ears, tail held carefully aloft. "She hatched you," she remarks happily, humming gently. She has met Soleil before, of course, but she was naught more than a hatchling back then - for the first time she can truly examine the dam of her bonded. At his dam's question, the stallion looks away, turmoil flashing across his scarred features. "I haven't seen my father in six years, either," he confesses. "After I saw you with him, that unicorn...you looked so happy. I...didn't know what to feel. So I left." He wonders whether to tell her what has happened in the years since; that he was the king of his own herd, that he has slaughtered hundreds for the crime of being different. Hundreds like Paladin, her husband. Would she still be proud of him then?

He opts to alter the direction of the conversation, and lifts his grey gaze back to hers. "What of you? Last time I saw you, you were...pregnant." He thinks back to the names she said, and wonders which of them was growing in her womb when last they met, growing in the same place Tyradon himself once inhabited. He wonders if she loves them more, those children by her horned suitor.

The way she speaks Paladin's name...he can almost taste the love she feels for the unicorn. It unnerves him; did she ever feel that for his father? Did she love the Earthmover, or was her relationship with him simply a product of teenage hormones? He knows his dam was young when she had him; he has become accustomed to the ways of life during his years away, and Soleil was barely out of her girlhood when she gave birth to him. Most of his mares hadn't borne their first foal until well into their fourth or fifth year, not their third. "Where is he?" he asks. He assumes the stallion would be loitering around Soleil like a tumour, ensuring she cannot be tempted by anybody but him; time has distorted his image of Paladin, has created an image of hatred that is so far from the truth. The male was nothing but pleasant to Tyradon - far more pleasant than Terrador ever was - and yet over the years the beast has bastardized Paladin, turned him into a hate figure, a reputation he likely doesn't deserve. Seeing his mother so infatuated only deepens his irrational distaste and jealousy, and he looks away with the faintest expression of disgust.

He doesn't move as his mother comes closer, touching his neck; quite the contrary, he enjoys the contact and finds himself reaching his muzzle forwards to softly snuffle at her mane. Cynder finds herself unbalanced as the warrior's thick neck stretches, and with a squeak she takes flight up to the dark shadows that make up the top of the cave. She perches on a stony ledge, giving mother and son some time alone - her mental link to her bonded remains strong, though, ensuring he can turn to her if he so wishes. Soleil lists the children she has mothered, and the stallion's eyes widen slightly at the sheer number of them. Five. That means she has spent almost every year of her life pregnant - a massive task, as he knows the physical strain pregnancy and motherhood cause. His dam is clearly a strong woman to have survived all that, and he finds pride emenating through him. "Paladin certainly got his money's worth," he remarks, voice far more sardonic than he intended. He winces inwardly, not wanting to hurt the grey mare. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that," he says. It is the first apology he has given in six years - it feels rather odd.

He shifts his heavy head to look his dam in the eye, his expression less the warmongering stallion, more the vulnerable colt. "Are they all here? And are they all...like him?" He does not feel the need to elaborate on what he means - he wonders if they are all horned, or if some have avoided that particular curse. "I have given you many grandchildren, all strong, all equine." Not abominations. The words come out almost gloatingly, although he hadn't intended them to appear as a brag; he is proud of his children, there is no doubt about that, and their pure heritage is of great importance to him.

He jerks his head in an attempt at a sympathetic nod. He knows he cannot be selfish - he has to force aside his irrational dislike of his mother's man and realise that he makes her happy. "I'll help you look for him, if you wish," he offers. His face is almost a grimace as he speaks, each word a dagger in his chest and poison on his tongue; he attempts to rearrange his expression into its usual stoic mask, but fears his true feelings have shone through. As far as he cares, Paladin can be consumed by the darkness forever, but for his mother's sake he will try to seek the unicorn out - if it makes her happy. If it makes her happy - he recites it in his head, like a song lyric, a silent vow. He has spent so many years away from her, he owes her whatever joy he can give her.

Even if it kills him inside.

His ill-advised comment had evidently upset her, and his apology had done nothing to solve it; gone were the days when a simple word could erase all evil. At her stern tone, he almost lowers his head and submits, like he is still a colt at foot; in days gone by he would have cowered, and gazed up at her with his puppy eyes in the hope of gaining forgiveness. But not today - he is a man grown now, a stallion in his prime, not a green boy able to be scolded; he dips his massive skull marginally in the slightest show of shame, yet defiance is still etched into the muscular lines of his neck. His eyeline snaps up again, unable to mask the horror on his face as Soleil reveals that one of his half-siblings is bonded to a dragon; a royal silver, no less. Up in the shadowy heavens of the cave, Cynder shrieks her disapproval - her mind, twisted by Tyradon's hatred, knows that it is obscene for a dragon to tie itself to a unicorn mongrel. But, he reasons, the bonded mare is his sister; she has inhabited Soleil's womb, the same as him. Is it really her fault that her sire's genes are that of vermin? For her to be chosen by a dragon, she must have some quality. Perhaps the unicorn filth is less apparently in her bloodstream...

His confusion and inability to decide what to think is evident on his face, his handsome features adopting a puzzled expression. The notion that his sisters have been bedded by gods is equally interesting, and the beast's turmoil only deepens. "I will have to meet these sisters of mine," he says, voice as neutral as he can make it. I would love them if they had horns or wings, says his dam as he brags about his children; again, before he can prevent them, the words slip from his muzzle. "I wouldn't," comes his bitter voice - not that he would ever put himself in a position to sire a possibly-mongrel child. The heat of his loins and the weight of his body is for the benefit of equine mares only, and any runt born with such a genetic abomination would have to be killed at birth.

She mentions his father, and for a moment the leviathan is almost offended; he is about to launch a staunch defence of his racist sire, but the words die in his throat. He considers what Soleil is saying, and takes a single step away from her to stare at the ground. "I am not blind, mother, not any more. When I was a boy, I let my father control me - I didn't dare object to the things he demanded of me, and I liked the idea of our species being superior, I revelled in the notion of having something to channel my hate towards. But I am who I am now not because of him, but because of my own choices - perhaps his teachings will always influence me, yet my hatred is my own. I am not such a coward as to blame my own failings on another." It is the first time he has ever spoken of his racism as a failing, as a flaw; the involuntary word troubles him. His heavy skull lifts to meet his dam's gaze, unwavering. "This is who I am, mother. Am I a son you can love?" He dreads the answer, but feels a sense of inevitability about it.

She is abrupt, and Tyradon is momentarily taken aback. He would have thought she would accept all help to search for Paladin, but it seems not. "Very well," he says gruffly, rather hurt at the notion that she doesn't trust him to help her search. Admittedly if he found Paladin he would be hard pressed not to have Cynder set him on fire, but he would do his level best - for her, his dam, the reason why he's here. Treat them well, she says, and he dips his head in acknowledgement, quashing down the bubbling hatred at the notion - he wants to point out that they aren't his only sisters, that his father sired good-quality, equine fillies with strong equine mares, but keeps that to himself. He doesn't want to further damage their already fragile relationship. "I would not harm my own flesh and blood, Mother," he says, but knows the words contain a hint of a lie - if he sired a foal that was of the wrong species, he would end it.

For its own sake - nobody deserved to be born a mongrel.

His eyes flash at her next words, as she calls him a fool, and his ears lace into his mane with a small hiss of disgust. "As my mother, I would have hoped you would respect my opinions, even if you do not share them - the same as I respect your choice of who you share your bed with, even though I do not agree with it." He speaks sharply, his patience wearing thin. She made him, and perhaps if she had made more of an effort to take him from his father, she could have raised him to be her own vision of perfection - as it was, he had grown up with Terrador's indoctrination, his fragile young mind brainwashed to believe that everything he was taught was right, because he knew no different.

His massive skull hangs, misery etched in the taut muscles of his neck as she reveals her disappointment - oh, he's always known it, but to hear it spoken in such certain terms wounds him to his core. He keps his face stoic, strong lines like stone to not betray any emotion. "I disappoint everyone," he murmurs, looking away from her and to his dragon nestled in the depths of the caves. He hadn't been able to protect her when the warlock regressed her, the same as he hadn't been able to protect his herd when they were invaded, hadn't been able to protect his uncle when he was lost during their escape from Isilme. He's failed so many people, and Soleil is just the latest in a long line, but her disappointment hurts more than most because he loves her, and always has. "If it pleases you, I will leave you be - you will never have to see me again." His voice is bitter, the words stinging his lips as he leaves them - of course he doesn't want to lose her, but for once he is trying to be selfless, to put another before himself. Perhaps it's for the best if he leaves her alone, stays away from her and allows her to forget she ever spawned such a disappointment.