After a month or so of having the Rotunda as the Regime's lair, Tyradon has come to think of it as a home of sorts. The deep forest around the ancient structure is full of plentiful grazing for him and prey for Cynder, and the endless expanse of trees makes a perfect hiding place for members of their secret order. Today he wanders between the foliage, head lowered as he nuzzles through the snow in his hunt for fresh grass, whilst his dragon lays curled on his back with her flame-tail drooping, occasionally sizzling against his sides.

Once he has eaten his fill, he returns to the Rotunda itself, keen to use the stone vantage point to survey lands he now sees as his. The Regime is not a conventional herd, and does not belong to him anywhere but in his mind, yet he still feels the need to protect them - the equines, at least. By the time he reaches the ancient dome, however, he finds it occupied - by a unicorn. His massive frame stiffens, ears automatically lacing into his mane as a low hiss of disgust leaves his jaws. Cynder wakes, and sits up stark straight on his back, her flaming tail lashing like an angered cats. The primal urge to claim ownership of the Rotunda and chase away the vermin atop it is almost overwhelming, but the dragon king remembers the quest he has been given by the Earth god - he has to interact with Helovia's filth, not exterminate them. Oh, he wants to, but dammit, he wants his magic back more.

With a deep breath to drag concentration into his lungs, the warmaster untwists his hate-filled features, and approaches the unicorn with a hard-fought stoic, neutral expression.

He ascends to the circle beside her, casting a cursory glance over her body - she's smaller than he, and the hideous protuberance on her forehead is twisted and lethal. He pictures it bloodied beneath his hooves, but concentrates fully on keeping his body language neutral, hiding every ounce of the bubbling hatred he feels. "Hello there," he says in his usual gruff, baritone voice. How exactly does one make small-talk with a rat? Cynder begins to chatter, her nostrils flaring as she sends Tyradon the image of a bear whose scent she has detected, but he ignores her for now. "Who are you?" What the hell else is there to say?

She turns to look at him, and he smothers a wince as Cynder's claws automatically rasp further into his thick flesh - it is a subconscious reaction from her now, usually accompanied by Tyradon's own surge of evident hatred when he sees one of the other species. But not this time. He told his bonded that they had to smother their disgust now, for the sake of the power they both craved, yet the jade dragon is not quite as experienced at hiding her emotions as Tyradon is.

The mare remains silent, and it isn't the companionable silence the beast often feels when socialising with one of his own species - it is awkward, and he rasps a hoof idly against the stone ground whilst his silver gaze fights to rest anywhere but on her horn. This was a damned bad idea - there have to be other unicorns somewhere, ones that will actually speak and give himself something to take his mind off how difficult it is to keep from ripping her head off. That god knew how hard this would be for him, and he supposes he has to earn the right to wield magic again - he hadn't quite imagined it would be this difficult, though.

But finally she speaks, gives her name, and the hellion's heart seems to slam to a halt.

Ktulu. He hears the name spoken in his mother's voice, and his lower jaw slips momentarily to hang open, aghast. He snaps it quickly shut with a resounding clack of teeth, and searches desperately for his voice, which seems to have buried itself somewhere deep in his chest. Cynder's surprise is rife in his mind but he forces down her questions, focusing fully on the mare in front of him. His sister, daughter of Paladin and forced from the same womb Tyradon himself had once inhabited. "Tyradon," he says, leaving a lingering silence afterwards to see if the mere mention of his name is enough to give her a reaction, like hers did to him. Did their mother ever speak of him to her? Of her dragon-bonded son, the one who let her down? "Son of Soleil," he adds, confirmation that they share blood.

At first there's no recognition, and the beast is hurt that he wasn't worth so much as a mention in the eyes of his mother. The mare seems to be getting more and more cranky and Tyradon snorts his distaste, deciding that this just isn't worth the hassle and about to turn to leave. Before he can, she repeats his second words back to him and he's so damned relieved to finally be getting some sort of a reaction from her. A growl grabs his attention and he glances down to see a bear, his eyes momentarily flashing with interest before he looks from the creature to his sister. Cynder oggles down at the furry animal and her claws twitch against her bonded's mane as she fights the desire to go and poke it.

She never mentioned you, she says, and the bastard's slate gaze blazes for a second as rage passes through his bloodstream. Ooh, what a bitch. Ears flatten into his mane and a snort of disgust escapes his flared nostrils, one hoof pawing irritably across the stone ground. This filly doesn't seem to realise she's walking on eggshells - she's treating him with thinly-veiled contempt, and in the past that has been a hanging offence for all with her horned affliction. If it wasn't for the fact she is her mother's daughter, and the fact he can't murder any unicorns for his bloody quest, then Cynder would be feasting on her bones even as they speak. Do you realise how lucky you are, girl, to meet me on a day like this? "I'm sure she had her reasons," he murmurs, words clipped and tones echoing with forced calm.

She asks him where he's from, and he is in two minds whether to answer or to stand here glowering like a petulant child. "Isilme," he answers gruffly, glancing back to the mare even as Cynder settles herself more comfortably into the crook of his back. "I am her firstborn, with her first lover." Her trueblood, equine lover. "And you?"

He wonders if things would have been different had he chosen to stay with his mother rather than his father - perhaps he would have grown up alongside his mongrel half-siblings and loved them as he should. Or, perhaps said siblings would never have been born - had him turning into a miniature version of his sire driven Soleil into the waiting arms and loins of her horned boyfriend? He will never know, and he supposes it's best not to dwell. The bear growls and Tyradon gives him another glance, Cynder's claws rasping even deeper into the taut flesh of his muscular back. "Prey?" she asks. She is still inexperienced with dealing with none-dragon companions, and her natural urge is to eat anything remotely mammalian, especially when it's bonded to a unicorn. Not yet, the beast responds, and she reluctantly settles back down to watch with her beady yellow eyes.

His sister - does he have to call her that, now? - reveals that she, too, grew up in Isilme, in the Tides. He wonders if that was under her father's reign, or whether the equines ever reclaimed what was once theirs. The behemoth had missed the heydey of Adalwulf's reign, when the equines ruled three of the four Isilme lands, but his father had spoken proudly of the time and Tyradon often wondered what life would have been like, living with such like-minded inviduals. In Isilme, you only needed to throw a stick and you'd hit a racist equine - here, they were like hidden gems, for the bastard to unearth and nurture.

Firstborn daughter, she says. In Tyradon's archaic point of view, girls were always worth less than boys - he had favoured his own colts, raising them as his heirs to follow in his heavy hoofprints. His fillies were trained well, of course, but their main purpose in life was as broodmares, and his meager affections had been for his sons alone. "One of many unicorn children she bore - her womb was only blessed with equine seed twice." His voice is sharper than intended, his face a contorted grimace of forced neutrality. He often thinks of Cael, wonders if his brother grew up with the same opinions that he himself took as gospel - if only he could meet his sibling, who would be a man grown now. She speaks of her sire and the hellion wrinkles his nose - somehow their conversation has turned into a pissing contest between them, a whose father is better competition. Tyradon knows Terrador will not win - judging by his dam's opinions on his father, it was only ever lust, not love, compared to how damn infatuated she seems with Paladin.

So, with a deep and painful breath, he takes the high road - as much as he wants to respond and argue that his sire was better, he forces aside the urge with great difficulty.

"Regardless, we share the same blood." Half of it, anyway. "Should we not be embracing, and sharing forgotten childhood memories rather than trying to outdo one another?" He quirks a sculped brow, almost gagging on the words that leave his lips - damn this quest to the pits of hell.

Massive skull jerks into a sharp nod. "Yes, I am," he says. Her next words cause the beast's silver eyes to flash and Cynder lifts onto her hindlegs, a plume of smoke rising dangerously from her nostrils. "We all make mistakes. Hers was letting her heart rule her head - a momentary lapse, a momentary weakness. Alas, that weakness resulted in you and your horned siblings." His voice is sharper than intended, all jovialty or forced niceness forgotten; his quest is at the back of his mind, momentarily shoved aside in favour of giving into the simmering hatred that threatens to engulf him. How can a man who has spent his entire life loathing the horned ones suddenly be expected to dance around a campfire with them? It will take time.

She responds to his words with a blunt rejection, and the hellhound's ears flatten momentarily into his mane. The moment I try to be nice to the dumb horned bitch... Cynder reaches out a forepaw to plait Tyradon's mane, humming gently in her throat in a manner she knows calms him. "She is clutch-mate, yes? Even when clutch-mates born with black scales or white, still love them." Her draconic logic threatens to bring a smile to his face and he feels his temper calm slightly as she continues to braid his mane. I'm not apologising to her, he responds stubbornly. He can hear Cynder's rumbling chuckle in the depths of his mind as she clambers up his neck to sit between his ears. "You never apologise," is her blunt, but very true, response.

He returns his gaze to his sister - that venomous word - and wrestles his expression into one of neutrality. His face is more of a grimace, but he hopes it looks less forced than it actually is. "I was raised by my father - he took me from my mother at an early age, to mould me into his perfect mini-me. He trained me to hate none-equines, because at the time he was the king of a supremely racist all-equine herd, and I dutifully obliged. I met my dragon when I was a month old, a gift from Nieque himself - made a couple of friends, made a couple of enemies, the usual." That's to put it mildly, of course. He leaves the story there, not wanting to mention how everything had changed when he met Paladin, Ktulu's father; how he actually liked the man, much to his disgust. "You?"