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.