He haunts the Threshold like a ghost, a blackened spectre hunting for any potential recruits to brainwash to his cause. His plans with Confutatis are about to be set in motion, and it isn't the sun on his back that warms his soul - it is the notion that, after eight months of solitude, he may finally be about to return to the ranks of the elite. Soon, a crown will sit on his head again; soon all will know his name. Soon they will sing their legends of the Warbringer and his Firetongue, and fear his presence as they should.

But before they do anything, they need followers. Whether they are lured by fable or by force, they need loyalists, soldiers willing to give their last breath for their Regime.

Above him, Cynder beats her wings against the air, carrying her high above his head. They have been in the caves for days now, and he can feel her heart soar at the delight of being out in the sunlight again. She bugles streams of flame, looping and chirping like a bird in spring, and the beast cannot help but chuckle. Then her mental voice touches his; "your hatchling", she says, her tones curious. Immediately Tyradon's interest is piqued; could it possibly be that one of his children has found their way to Helovia? He hasn't seen the spawn of his loins for eight long months, not since the war, not since the crushing removal of his magic and his dragon's maturity. He alters his path, massive hooves crunching against the snow as he follows Cynder's cues until he sees the unmistakeable figure of Farkas, staring at the sun. The boy was a strange one, even as a colt, yet his presence is still welcomed - with a guiding hoof and some steel in his soul, he could be great.

The massive stallion slows his pace, gargantuan skull dipping in a nod. He makes no move to touch his child, to welcome him properly; he has never been a particularly affectionate man, even to those born of his lust. "Farkas," he greets. Cynder is not so conservative with her greeting - she swoops down and scoops up a shiny grey rock, hovering in front of Farkas and offering him her gift with a series of happy chirps. She has never had hatchlings of her own, and so treats Tyradon's offspring like they are hers; she shows them far more outward affection than her sullen bonded has ever done. Tyradon chuckles to himself, then returns his attention to Farkas. The boy is a stallion in his own right now, no longer a rangy colt; he can be of use, but first it is time for a catch-up. "What brings you here?" he asks. He remembers the youth's mother, and wonders whatever became of her.

"Son," he greets, in response to the youth's first words. Cynder gurgles her displeasure as Farkas gives her naught but a flicker of his ears, and with a haughty puff of smoke she takes flight, perching in a nearby tree to sulk and hug her shiny stone close. Tyradon rolls his eyes with a note of affection before shifting his attention to his son, noting the boy's lack of eye contact - something he well remembers. He huffs, taking the gesture as one of submission, and steps towards Farkas - massive skull extends, seeking to nudge his muzzle against the underside of the boy's chin to encourage him to look him in the eye. "Never drop your gaze - it makes your foe think you are weak, and gives them a chance to strike while you are unawares." His words are stern, but not unkind; he has no wish to humiliate the youth, only educate him - even if his teachings are often rough and devoid of fatherly sentiment.

At Farkas' next words, a frown flitters across the paladin's rugged features. Is that really how he seems? An authoritarian, judgemental figure, unable to show any sort of love towards those he sires? He knows he does love them, in his own way - how could he not love something he had fathered with his own seed, and watched be brought into the world in a haze of blood and sweat? - but they have to prove themselves worthy of any sort of outward praise. He would far rather his children grow up strong and tough but resentful of his iron hand, rather than weak and coddled by the love he showed them during their youth. He wants only the best for them; they are the future of his bloodline, the reason his fine genetic combination will be carried down long past the incident of his own demise. Lying to them and making them think they are strong when they aren't will aid nobody except their enemies, and if they resent him for his brutal outlook, then so be it.

"Yes, I want you here, and no, you have brought me no shame - not yet, anyway. As long as you let me teach you everything you need to know, I will make a man of you." It is spoken as a promise, albeit one that Farkas likely won't enjoy hearing; it will be a long, tough road, but one that will hopefully result in him becoming a strong and worthy individual. He is a colt, after all, and thus far more worthy of Tyradon's attentions than any of his fillies. "Myself and a mare named Confutatis, we are going to create an empire, even more magnificent than the one you were born into." It is no easy task; Tyradon's last herd was massive, so strong it could only be thwarted by the underhand tactics of that unicorn bastard and his magic. "You will join us." It is an order, not an invitation.

A small smile twists into life on his scarred muzzle at Farkas' swift rebuke. "Good. You will need to use all of them." A battle was not the simple use of sight, the anticipation of a foe's next move; it was the sound of hooves thudding against bloodied soil, the smell of sweat and pain, the taste of hatred. To be a competent warrior, all of those senses needed to be honed to perfection. Tyradon had the added bonus of Cynder's senses as well, and her eyesight was vastly superior to his - she could note the smallest twitch of a muscle long before her brutal bonded could. Alone they were formidable - together they were unstoppable.

He offers to do anything, even war, and the sire's gargantuan skull dips in a pleased nod. Willingness to learn, to be taught, is the first step to superiority. At his son's next question, the beast casts a furtive glance around them. The darkness can still be felt, in the shadow cast by every tree; the last thing he needs is for himself or his son to become infected. As much as he loathes the notion of fleeing to safety, he knows they will able to talk more at length once they are in the Sanctuary, safe from the nefarious intentions of Helovia's infected residents. "As soon as possible. First, we must head to the caves, where we can talk in peace. There is a darkness spreading through Helovia, Farkas - a disease, and for once it is not the doing of the horned and winged." The scum. His muzzle wrinkles in disgust, even hating how the words feel on his tongue. "Come." The command falls from the leviathan's blackened lips as it has so many times before; he turns, expecting his son to follow. Cynder springs from her tree and catches herself on the fanned canopy of her wings, gliding high above the pair to keep a keen eye out for any marauding demons.