Eventually they reach the caverns, and the warrior's massive skull swings to drink in his surroundings. Cynder leaves her perch on his back and soars away to explore, disappearing into the shadows until they are linked by nothing but their mental bond. Still the leviathan follows the mare, until the thunder of a waterfall reaches his ears; with a screech his dragon returns to him, crashing onto his muscular rump and holding on with claws hooked into his flesh. Water is the one thing that the jade war-dragon is afraid of - she knows that entering it would extinquish her flame-tail, and her life with it. Her bonded soothes her with soft mental caresses, reminding her that she is death, and mustn't fear something as petty as a wall of water. She calms, one clawed paw reaching out to play with his mane in a manner that comforts both of them, whilst her beady yellow eyes dart cunningly between the mare and her mongrel.

The she-devil speaks, finally giving him a name to put to that queerly-marked face of hers. Confutatis. She talks of the family like of work, and the ghost of a smirk lifts a corner of the warmaster's muzzle. "You and I both," he murmurs, thinking of his father and the Oasis that he had ruled - his dominion, his empire. She speaks of failed takeovers, but the notion of loss does not lesson the stud's fledgling respect for her. Even he - warmaster, son of molten ambition and bathed in the glory of a hundred fallen foes - has tasted defeat, albeit just once and only through the underhanded tactics of a magic-wielding unicorn. It is naught to be ashamed of, as long as one learns from it, and enacts their revenge. "They will fall," he says simply, broaching no arguments. Cynder hums her agreement, flame-tail lashing and igniting the air around them. "We share the same goal, Confutatis. To rule, to dominate - we can be of use to each other, as long as that goal remains the same." He puts it simply, succintly - no eternal promises, no pledge of loyalty, simply two warriors who seek to climb their way up the Helovian ladder with fire and blood. "First, tell me of the herds here, and their leaders. I know little of Helovian politics." Yet.

He does not dwell on these memories, focusing instead on every word that comes from the mare's mouth - he absorbs them, like mother's milk. Muzzle wrinkles in disgust as she talks of those willing to simply serve, to bend the knee and trundle along in their happy little lives helping whichever ruler took their fancy - why in Nieque's name did they not want to rule? No man with blood in his veins should ever be content to simply follow, when he could have an empire clasped between his teeth; it stank of weakness, of a lack of faith in one's own abilities. Tyradon had no such shortcomings. He was born to rule - and the daughter of Oblivion seemed to share his lofty goals. "What species were these leaders? Equine, or scum?" It is the first time he makes reference to his inherent racism; battleship grey gaze scans her face for signs of reaction. He thinks they will work well together, regardless of whether she shares his beliefs, but he knows their union will be far more successful if she understands his desire to purge Helovia of the horned and the winged.

He continues to listen, until her mouth is dry of words. "Yes, I will recruit. There are bound to be some here with fire in their heart." He thinks back to his previous herd, and the loyalty they offered him without questioning; a small sigh flees his jaws, knowing he will have to rebuild from the ground up. Cynder shifts her position on his back, sending him images of his children, his most devoted servants; he grits his teeth and blocks the pictures, not needing his bonded to remind him of everything he has lost. "If they refuse to join us willingly, then they will join by force." True loyalty was always better than fake loyalty, but while they were starting out they needed anything they could get. Any equines who could not see his point of view would be forced to accept it - he was sure that, with some light persuasion, he could turn even the most adamant of creatures towards his, their, cause. "If we go to the Threshold, ensure we are the first faces they see - they would be fools to refuse us. And once we have an army behind us..." Oh, he can scarcely contain his excitement; pillage, kill, glory!

His gaze snaps to her hindleg, which lifts like a threat; he quirks a brow, but his heart is sinking. If she does not share his racist beliefs, it will make things...marginally more difficult. He has no idea if he can be neutral towards anything with horns or wings, as his hatred is simply so deeply ingrained in his soul; but, he reasons, scum that are loyal to him could be a different story. If he can look past their mongrel blood, he can see the potential in them as frontline soldiers - dispensable. "I believe in only equine superiority. The rest...they are mongrel stock. Inferior creatures, fit only to burn." The words spew from his maw filled with such hatred that he can almost taste it, bitter on his tongue. He said such things often in his old life, aimed to indoctrinate and ensure his soldiers harboured no second thoughts about their mission to exterminate. He senses his gospel will not so easily twist Confutatis' mind, however; they will have to compromise. "But, if you can find any willing to serve without question...then I will tolerate them. They will provide expendable brawn to our cause, I suppose, but should any of them put a foot wrong or hint about threatening our leadership..." Cynder releases a shrill cry and a blast of flame pours from between her jaws, illuminating the cave around them; the beast can almost smell the sickly-sweet aroma of burning flesh.

Amongst all the stallion's hate-filled words, he idly notices that he is saying we and our, not me and I. Could it be that he already considers this mare an equal?

He catches sight of her eyeline shifting to Cynder, who is only too happy to display in front of the merest hint of admiration; she puffs herself up, preening and thrashing her flame-tipped tail around so vigorously it scorches away the top layer of Tyradon's back-fur. In response, his own steel gaze drifts downwards towards the two-tailed dog, his own curiosity evident. "Your dog...are you mentally bonded to him? I had always laboured under the impression that we could bond only to dragonkind." He thinks of the foolhardy paint and his hellhound, and a nasty thought occurs to him; if they can bond with things other than dragons, can unicorns and pegasi, too?

No. Surely not. Their minds are too stunted to have that uniquely equine ability.

Her muzzle traces the haggard contours of his face, and he softly releases a warm breath from his nostrils; he does not often accept contact, especially to his face, where the scars are still quite fresh. But Confutatis is different, and he accepts her greeting willingly, with the gusto of a starving man. "Yes," is all he can say, a determined murmur, a promise. Cynder springs from his back and skims the cave floor, scooping a small, shiny stone up in her claws. She returns to the equine pair and lands by their feet, prancing on her hindlegs towards Mongrel and offering him the gift - her own signal of acceptance, and of burgeoning friendship.

If he hadn't hated unicorns before, he sure as hell did now.

He looks back to the mare, his expression - which had softened as he looked at Cynder - hardening once more, to absorb his emotions back behind the mask and ensure his new companion sees no hint of weakness. Despite the sombre tone to their conversation, the beast's spirits are high; Confutatis is saying and doing all the right things, and the burgeoning seed of trust within the leviathan begins to sprout. He listens as she speaks, enjoying her name for him; dragon king. "Dragon king and demon queen," he murmurs, testing how the words feel upon his tongue. They are...agreeable. She is diplomatic, something he sees use in for the future - although he is a natural leader, he lacks tolerance, and is certainly far too shallow to see the potential in anything that isn't equine. He is blinkered, and he will freely admit as such, but this daughter of demons offers him sight. Providing her mongrels do not anger him, he can almost - almost - see the potential in having them as hired help.

He idly notes the tone of her voice, and lifts a blackened brow. "You speak with the wisdom and authority of one who has ruled before," he observes, his words poised as both a statement and a question. Perhaps that was why they got along so well - they had both tasted dominance, and would do anything to have it back.

She confirms that her companion is not a dog, but a kitsune - and that they are, in fact, mentally bonded. He glances down at the creature, fully observing him for the first time. He certainly wouldn't trade Cynder in for him, although he can see that the kitsune must have its own perks. As the mare gives her bonded's name, Tyradon's upper lip lifts in the smallest of sardonic smiles; how ironic, that she has named her partner-of-mind with the same name that he uses for anything that is not equine - something derogatory. This is not Isilme, she says, bluntly; the colossus lowers his skull for a moment, his mind roving back to his home. Isilme is gone now, purged in the fires of racism, but its traditions live on. It is hard for him to accept, but he knows he must; he cannot live in the past forever. "I assume the other species can bond as well, then?" he says, voice bitter; at least he has refrained from his favoured term of abomination. He pities the animals tied to unicorns or pegasi; they deserve to bond to superior minds, not the stunted brains of lesser beings.

Below their feet, the green war-dragon chirps happily as Mongrel accepts her gift; he returns with one of his own, a mouse. With one paw, the dragoness knocks the rodent aside and peels back her jaws to release a thin torrent of flame, so hot Tyradon can feel it warming his feathered fetlocks. The mouse sits, smoking gently, the meat cooked through; Cynder rips it in half with her claws and casts one half back to the kitsune. Her portion disappears down her gullet in seconds and she shoots her newest friend the draconic version of a smirk; try it.

He is surprised as Confutatis addresses Cynder directly - the dragon, too, is astonished, but immediately puffs herself up and chatters happily away with a series of draconic chirps and hums. Those unbonded to dragons assume they are dumb beasts, and rarely address them as sentient individuals - they speak to the stallion instead, assuming the creature perched on his back is a pretty, shiny death machine, possessing neither emotion nor intelligence greater than that of a common brute. As one, Tyradon and Cynder's mutual respect for the mare rises, and the jade war-dragon waddles over to Confutatis' foreleg, seeking to affectionately rub her scaled head against the fetlock. This even takes the warlord aback - his green has never shown such outward affection to anybody but him, but after the initial spasm of jealousy he takes it as a promising sign. She-horse clever, comes the sing-song mental voice of his bonded, and he looks down to see her peering sweetly at him. She make good eggs, strong hatchlings. Is it just his imagination, or is there a slyness to Cynder's words, a subtle hint that she has detected his appreciation of this mare and is twisting it like a knife against him? He simply chuckles, shaking his heavy head in amusement. Dragons - so unpredictable.

His attention is dragged back to her, his queen of bones, as she speaks of empires and the kidnapping of a boy-prince, of taking him as her suitor and bearing him a son. An unknown emotion shoots through the warbringer, and with a certain smug satisfaction Cynder's voice rings in his head again; jealous. He pins his ears and glares down at her, but she simply gazes innocently back up at him, still fawning around Confutatis' fetlocks like a lovestruck kitten. Everything the mare says screams of a strong mother, one unwilling to let nature dictate that one must blindly love a child and coddle them; Tyradon knows better, knows that wrapping a newborn in cotton wool will do them no good. On some level, he loves the fruit of his loins - there is no doubt of that - but he is not a warm father, not a loving sire to kiss their wounds and assure them of their perfection. They have to learn to stand on their own hooves and survive, and if they do so hating their cruel creator then so be it. For Confutatis to drag her own son from her womb due to weakness, she must have similar ideas.

Imagine what they could create together.

He chooses not to comment, focusing instead on her words about her magic. Her poison - he wonders what she can do. Shifting, he turns so a muscular shoulder is pointed in her direction, his gargantuan head pivoting to look at her with thinly-veiled interest. "Your magic," he says. "Show me." He thinks of the acid he saw bubbling from her mouth, imagines how it will feel as it eats through the flesh of his shoulder - he cares little for pain, but is keen to know what exactly her saliva has the power to do. Perhaps he is foolish, or perhaps - as Cynder idly remarks through a series of mental images - he is seeking to appear strong and fearless in front of the demon mare, to show what a fine suitor he would be. No, he tells himself; it is all in the name of science, to discover what weapon he now has on his side.

His dragon glances at Mongrel - who seems to have enjoyed her cooked delicacy - with an expression on her face that says my bonded is a testosterone-fuelled idiot, then stops her fawning to gaze anxiously up at the stallion in preparation to intervene if necessary.

And it does.

His ears slicken to his skull as she sinks her teeth into the taut flesh of his shoulder, the area quickly vacated by Cynder as she scuttles instead to his rump. Agony explodes, and he turns his massive head to watch the chemical reaction - he cannot bend quite enough, so watches through his dragon's eyes, instead. He sees his own flesh bubble and burn, strips peeling free to reveal potent red tissue vibrant beneath the blackened mask; a grunt swells in his throat but he smothers it before it can free itself, determined to show no pain. Even after the initial spasm ebbs, the stink of burning flesh lingers in the air, as do the throbs of hot hell that pour through the tattered remains of his shoulder. It will scar, there's no doubt of that, but he thinks only of how advantageous such magic will be to their cause - what better way to twist the mind of a potential recruit than to show them the consequences of refusal? "That is a fine magic - you are blessed," he rumbles. Or is it cursed? He wonders if her lips are constantly devoured by the stinging acid - he wonders at the pain if he was to taste her, draw her frothing spittle into himself.

But their meeting is at an end, and the beast swings his head back around to face Confutatis. She designates a time and place for their next meeting, and he nods. "Until then, demon queen." He dares to extend his muzzle, seeking to nudge against the refined contours of her face, before turning his gargantuan frame away and taking his leave. Cynder chuffs to both mare and mongrel, before boosting from her bonded's rump and diving through the skies above him.