Sometimes he thinks life would be far easier if he wasn't so full of hate.

When he thinks of his childhood, he finds it tinged with regret - regret that he allowed his father to cloud his mind with prejudice, to force on him a racism that transcended any sort of common sense. He thinks it would be a far easier way to live, if he could look at a unicorn and pegasus and not feel the desire to kill - he thinks he would be a far happier being if he could simply live, and not have to constantly plan his next move, his next battle, his next victim. He often wonders how different his life would be if he hadn't allowed the Earthmover to twist his naiive young mind, bend it into his vision of perfection and mould the perfect son - the mini-me, the obedient soldier who asked no questions and simply did, because that was his duty.

He thinks often of the fact he has done to Cynder what his father did to him - bend her mind to his will, force on her his beliefs and ensure she treats them as gospel. She never questions why he hates the other species, why they must die - she simply accepts that he knows best, and obeys his every command, exactly as he once did when he was naught but a green young colt, eager for his sire's affections. Eight years of having such beliefs drummed into her has ensured the jade dragon seethes the same as Tyradon does whenever she sees one of the other species - she automatically summons her flame and sharpens her claws, because she knows nothing else. But it would be wrong to say the warrior regrets his upbringing, because he doesn't - he knows nothing else. His racism is as much part of him as the air that he breathes, and there isn't a single part of his body that recognises that he is as closed-minded and shallow as he actually is. In his arrogance, he sees no flaw in his beliefs - he just sometimes wishes he didn't have them, because he is damned sick of the conditioned reaction whenever he sees one of his proclaimed vermin. His insistence on hating could be detriment to the Regime, and at the moment that society is all he has left.

He regrets that he allowed his father to shape his life so much, but he doesn't blame the Earthmover for it. He has done exactly the same thing with Cynder, with his own children, and realises that it is so easy to dominate innocent minds, to taint them eternally. No, he doesn't blame his sire for everything he has done in Nieque's name, because he isn't that sort of man - he owns his actions, and doesn't take the easy way out by pushing the blame onto someone else.

He wanders idly, his dragon asleep on his back with her soft breaths a sweet lullaby in his ears. He never shares these thoughts or regrets with her, not wanting her to think he has any qualms over the way he has chosen to live his life - there are some things even she, partner of his mind and soul, doesn't need to know. But in these quiet times, when he meanders aimlessly with only Cynder's draconic dreams for company, he cannot help but dwell on the past. He walks, his massive frame crunching over fresh snow and old black ice, nostrils flaring as he detects the smell of lust in the air - even the wintery conditions underfoot seem to lessen as he wanders further into what he can assume are Helovia's breeding grounds. He cannot help but shrivel his nose as he thinks of all the foul horned and winged vermin that have been conceived here - if only someone had thought to slay all mutant foals at birth, then Tyradon's palisade against them would be a hell of a lot easier.

He lazily contemplates finding himself a mare, because it has been so damn long since he indulged in such carnal pleasures and he knows there is no better way to ease the aching of his bitter old soul than to lose himself in the svelte curves of a woman's body. But he is distracted from such thoughts by the sight of an equine stallion, doing something with flowers - no doubt trying to woo a suitor by proffering her nature's finest in exchange for access to her own delectable gift. He's about to turn and leave the man to his pleasures when he notices the flowers gleaming in the sunlight, and his eyes widen as he realises there is magic at play here. He edges closer, lost in the sight of glass creeping across the petals to encase them forever - there's envy in his gaze as he thinks of his own magic, lost for so long now. "That is a fine gift you have there," rumbles the dragon king, drawing to a halt close to the other stallion. "You must be a hit with the ladies." It's not like Tyradon to make any attempt at humour, but there's a twinkle in his eye as he examines the flowers, his quick mind already thinking of uses for the man's glassblowing artistry.