He is as bemused as Kahlua as to why the Earth God chose him, of everyone, to bestow a quest upon. Oh, he's glad, of course, because it gives him a chance to earn back his missing magic and perhaps even advance its ability, but he cannot help but wonder if the God is trying to lure him into some kind of trap. Eight years of consistent paranoia ensure the dragon king is unable to simply take something at face value; he suspects an ulterior motive. But he had offered a nod of acknowledgement to the God, a sneer of amusement to Aurelia, the loudmothed harlot that was not even worth the sweat on his flanks that it would take to crush her, and left. He will complete his quest, and see what happens - as difficult as it will be shelving his racism, the warlord will do next to anything for the sake of power.

Out of morbid curiosity, he follows Kahlua, the equine mare who seems so...wary of him. The beast is the sort of man who enjoys the fear of others being directed at him - he likes to see quivering, intimidated individuals bending to his iron will, thrives on forced respect and stolen loyalty. But, of their two meetings, he could not recall doing anything particularly unpleasant aside from offering a few sharp words that weren't even aimed at her - certainly nothing that should make the attractive girl afraid of him. She is pure, after all, with no mutation on her forehead or shoulder, and she could be a useful addition to the Regime if he can earn her trust - or, failing that, her bending the knee due to sheer fear. So he follows her, massive frame seeking to draw up close to her as they wander through the meadow, steel gaze fixing on her with the smallest of quirked brows. "You needn't smile just for my benefit," he murmurs, baritone voice neutral as he flicks his gaze across the grin so falsely attached to that attractive muzzle of hers. He is the connieseur of fake smiles and forced jovialty, of masks and masquerades, and he wonders what emotion she's so keen to hide.

Cynder stretches on his back, every sinew on her scaled body pulsing as she clambers up his neck to perch between his ears, eyeing Kahlua with a tilted head. "I don't believe we've officially met - I am Tyradon, and this is Cynder." The God of the Earth spoke his name, of course, but it isn't the same as a proper greeting from man to woman; he eyes her, body language as neutral as he can make it whilst still ensuring he pushes into her personal space just enough to try and assert his masculine authority.

She's as jumpy as a filly in spring, and the bastard stands his ground with the smallest lift of his amused brow. She introduces herself, and his silver gaze turns interested as she reveals she's a queen - he hadn't expected that of her. One of her seeming shyness isn't the sort he could imagine upon a throne, and he wonders if she is the trophy queen of a war king, a pretty face to warm his bed and bear his children. "Shall I bow, or will a curtsy do?" he asks her with a small simper, sarcasm evident, massive head tilting to scrutinise her in a manner he fully intends to be unnerving, predatory.

She asks a question of him, and he is silent for a moment as he thinks over it. Because it just won't doesn't seem like the sort of answer that would satisfy her. "Because peace can never be permanent, Kahlua. For every woman like you, there's a man like me - never content unless we're at war. Battle runs in our blood, and as long as that's the case, peace is naught but an attractive concept that doesn't work in reality." For him, it is as simple as that. Some individuals were content to follow, but for every one of them, there was a Tyradon or a Confutatis - content only when bathing in the blood of a foe. Unless there was a way to stifle the primal urge for war in the minds of such men and women, peace could never last. Oh, if Tyradon and his demon queen took a herd, he didn't doubt that a period of peace would soon follow - a time when they were content to rest and savour life, free from war cabinets and strategies. But sooner or later, the lust to take would arise within them again and they would march again on their palisade to rule, to dominate, to dine on wine, women and war.

Because life was too damn short to sit around a fire content with what you had, when you could have more.

"That is why leaders need to be willing to do whatever it takes in the name of their followers. They are entitled to savour peace while it lasts, to reap the rewards of hard-won battles, but they need to have the ability and desire to give their last breath to protect what they have when necessary. Kings and queens who do naught but sit on their thrones and pray war will never come are unfit to wear their crowns - who is going to put their faith in a monarch unwilling to die for them?" He makes his crusade for dominance sound almost altruistic, when he puts it like that. Yes, there is an element of selfishness in his craving for power - he wants to be the best, he wants to want for nothing and to have mares fawning at his feet and men begging to fight and die in his name. But he also craves leadership because he thinks he would be better at it than anybody else - he is willing to die for his cause, to fight and kill and protect until his bitter old bones break and his flesh rots in the bloodied soil.

He hunts a crown not just for his sake, but for the wellbeing of all who pledge their loyalty to him, because they deserve it.

He looks back to the mare, the angel queen, and lifts a questioning brow. "Would you fight for your herd, Kahlua, or sit and watch as they're torn to shreds before your eyes?" He scans her face for reaction, keen to see if his words have managed to convince her about how right he was.

It's been a while since he has spoken as much as he has today, and his throat burns from the sensation of his rumbling voice ripping free from it. He continues to watch her, the corner of his muzzle curling into a small smirk of amusement as she seems completely oblivious to his sarcasm. She strikes him as a pure, innocent soul; a white dove, untainted by the likes of him, black crows with intentions as far away from honourable as it is possible to be. Is it wrong of him to want to ruffle those pristine feathers of hers? For him to want to make her question everything she has, until now, taken as gospel? He wants to wake her up to the reality that there's no such thing as a happy ending, no such thing as white knights saving virgin princesses, and that there's no such thing as a golden king and queen stood in the sun, content to rule through benevolence and faith alone.

Dreams like those are for the minds of fillies who still believe that all men want nothing more than to be their handsome prince, good and pure and loving. They are dreams for souls who haven't yet turned bitter, who haven't yet realised that life isn't rainbows and unicorns, that it's blood and sex and sweat and steel and death. Part of him admires Kahlua's innocence, her views, but the rest of him wants nothing more than to shatter her perfect world and wake her up to the fact that they are all cursed and they might as well enjoy the ride, because tomorrow they could be prone on a battlefield with swords through their backs.

Her question draws a simple, blackened smile from his torn lips, slate eyes as cold as chips of ice as he looks at her. "I was a king for the better part of six years, Kahlua, since before you were so much as an urge in your father's loins. When I was a green boy a part of me thought the way you do now - but then I realised life isn't that damned simple, and if the gods meant us to sit around preaching peace then why did they give us teeth and hooves and dragonflame?" He's completely focused on her, massive frame drawn up to its full and impressive height. On his shoulders, Cynder chirrups her approval, because she, just like he, knows no other life than one made up of blood and misery and blind hatred. She was forged in fire the same as he was born of steel and fury, and both of them are hardpressed to remember a time when they weren't thinking of their next strategy, their next victim.

The mare admits she has fought for her herd, and his ravenous gaze shifts to the scar she indicates. "Unicorn horn?" he questions, because the sight of it in all its puckered glory reminds him of the one that carves across his face, wide like a crimson smile. "Then we aren't so different after all, my dear," he croons, smug satisfaction evident in his booming words. In his own twisted mind he's won, because she has fought for her loved ones and he naturally assumes that a part of her must have liked it. Perhaps that was why she was so keen to preach peace - because she was scared of what she would do in war.

Her question falls on ready ears, and the beast allows himself a small chuckle. "You think Helovians would sit back and allow me to rule every land without retribution? There would be rebellions, Kahlua, wars and assassinations and torture all done in the name of the greater good. Because that's how the likes of you function, isn't it? You won't start a war, but if there's one there, you'll participate - because you can smother your guilt by saying it was in self-defence, or it was to protect your friends. If it was me sat upon my ill-gotten throne, you wouldn't be so keen for peace then, would you? No, you wouldn't rest until I was in the ground, peace be damned." And that, to him, is the difference between himself and the vast majority of others. He will go to war and freely admit he does so because he likes it, or because he wants to exterminate anybody different. He owns his actions - but others are keen to hide behind the facade of doing the wrong things for the right reasons. They're afraid to take any blame upon themselves, so they shift it onto somebody else - oh, I killed him because he attacked me first! I started a war on him because he's a tyrant!

I killed his children because god was on my side!

There is something exhilarating about a good debate, a rush that he normally only gets through war and lust. As well as being prejudiced, blinkered and shallow, Tyradon is opinionated to the point of arrogance, always believing he is in the right, and there is not a lot more satisfying than seeing the mind of another bend to his point of view. He looks back to the queen, acknowledging her responses with a lazy flick of his ear - his attention is largely focused on exactly how she gained that wonderful scar. Did the unicorn who did it spite her to the point of violence, or was it a more....accidental wound? Alas, he'll probably never know. We're not the same, she exclaims, adamant, and the smallest of smirks plays at the corner of the foul animal's muzzle. "If you say so," he says pleasantly, as though humouring a young child.

But, before their thrilling debate can continue, a parasite arrives in the form of that damned mosquito Aaron. He has equine blood in his veins and that is the only thing keeping Tyradon from forcibly ejecting his colon from out of his throat - he's an immature, naiive, holier-than-though boy whose balls are probably still descending, if he actually has any, which is open to debate. His eyes roll at the youth's words, exasperation evident as he looks imperiously down at the foolish colt blabbering like a boy to his mother. "I'm afraid I have no fucks to give for your sob story, boy, as poetic and tearjerking as it is. Begone and leave the adults to talk." Generally Tyradon was happy to educate the...less knowledgable, and would have been only too glad to put Aaron right, but the damnable child has irked him one too many times with his childish preaching. He needs taking down a few notches, as the dragon king has done countless times with headstrong sons who have grown too big for their hooves - a well-aimed kick and sharp nip to the withers is generally a good way to get them to learn their place.

But, on this occasion, he's enjoying Kahlua's company too much to disturb it. So he adopts the next best technique - turning his massive rump towards Aaron, and dutifully pretending he isn't there.

He looks back to the mare, completely ignoring the dumb colt, although Cynder keeps a single eye on him to ensure he doesn't try any cowardly tricks whilst the beast's back is turned. Kahlua seems eager to lurk beside Aaron, and the bastard resists the urge to roll his eyes - by Nieque, she is probably a more capable fighter than her painted friend. "My family know the dangers of war, Kahlua, but they're usually strong enough to defend themselves, because they need to be." He doesn't mention the fact he has essentially disowned both parents - that his father only wanted him as a soldier to mould into his own image, that his mother spent eight years trying to forget he ever existed whilst she bedded down with a unicorn, and that his siblings don't even know his name. He doesn't mention the women, the lovers, he's seen fall by the blades of enemies, nor the friends and fellow warriors that he's watched thrash out their last agonised moments on a muddy battlefield.

He doesn't mention that he watched his own dragon broken before his eyes, turned helpless and weak by the supernatural prowess of a creature Tyradon has spent his life hating.

"There is no room for sentiment on the battlefield, family or otherwise. I've watched my children die because they couldn't fight properly. I've seen my sons' throats ripped out and I've seen my daughters with foals in their bellies crushed by the hooves of my enemies, and does it make me abhor war? No - because no matter what, war will always come sooner or later. Better I ensure myself and my loved ones are prepared, rather than quivering behind my mother's skirts and hoping the tales of battle are just that - tales. " He fights the urge to send a scathing glance towards Aaron, naiive idealist that he is. No, he cares only for what Kahlua has to say, not her irritating friend.