He is no stranger to fatherhood, so is not plagued by the worries some first-time sires may possess. He has danced this dance a hundred times before, and as his demon queen bloats and the due date of their child draws closer, he begins to follow her like a shadowy disease. When he has to rest, Cynder follows instead, always keeping a keen eye out for any signs of labour. The demon has no intention of missing this, missing the birth of a beast, because this will likely be the first and only time he sees his newest son or daughter. Come the day after the birth, he will be pounding a furrow into the ground with the intensity of his gallop to get back to the herd he left behind. Given the size of the vampire, he has his suspicions that more than one little grub is set to burrow free of her womb; after all, twins do run in his family.

When the birth comes, the beast and his dragon will not arrive giftless, either. A day previous, they had been resting in the forest when they had witnessed a gold queen dragon - reminscent of his father's bonded Eridor - giving birth to a clutch of eggs high up in the trees. Tyradon had watched the birth through Cynder's curious eyes, because, as a subservient green, she was naturally intrigued by the bringing of new life and was keen to help the wild gold protect her young. The majority of the eggs were bronze, gold, silver, royal, but nestled among them was one little black egg; oh, the trees had shook with the force of the gold's fury! She, a royal queen, giving birth to a plain! Both Cynder and Tyradon had watched in horror as she rolled the black egg to the edge of the nest and promptly cast it over the side - with a feral squawk Cynder had flown towards it, catching it before it shattered on the ground. The gold had watched in haughty disgust, curled around her royal eggs without a care for the black she had so carelessly cast aside. Abandoned.

Cynder was a maternal thing, and through their bond Tyradon had felt her desire to raise the egg as her own. But it made little sense; to his knowledge he could only bond to one dragon, so the black would simply hatch and fly away. A waste, he felt. Why not give the abandoned egg to his child when it was born? Both he and his father before him had bonded with dragons very early on in life, in their first year, in fact; it had influenced the rest of their life for the better, and the black behemoth has every intention of giving his and Confutatis' devil offspring that same privelege. So he instructs Cynder to keep the egg warm and alive, but not to get too attached. She reluctantly obeys, although it does thaw his stone heart somewhat to see her sleeping nestled tightly around the egg.

Today, though, it is Tyradon himself guarding the black egg, as Cynder is out keeping an eye on Confutatis; the stallion rests with one hindleg cocked when he feels the shout down their mental bond, the summons. It's happening! He is awake in an instant, charging in the direction of the green war-dragon's mental instructions with the egg balanced precariously on his shoulders, ascending a thin rocky path until he reaches a beautiful field high up in the heavens. How odd - he'd assumed Confutatis would choose to give birth somewhere a lot more dastardly, like a cave or a blood-soaked battlefield.

He arrives just in time to see not one but two bloody young bodies leave her own in a heap of wet warmth and pain; twins, as expected. The hellhound looks with cold eyes down at the foals, waiting for them to stand so he can examine their genders. They exude strength, and he is fully confident that they will soon be teetering up on stilt-like limbs to suckle at their dam's teat. Cynder perches between his ears, her tail coiled possessively around the egg as her yellow eyes greedily observe the two newborns. "Didn't we do well," drawls Tyradon, tail lashing against his powerful thighs as he stands proudly and protectively over his young. Which one gets egg? questions Cynder, and the beast's brow furrows. "I have a gift for one of them," he says, giving a mental nudge to Cynder. With great reluctance, she scoops up the egg and flies down towards the foals, one clawed paw protectively over it as she awaits the instruction on who to give it to. "We found a gold giving birth - she abandoned this egg because of its colour. Both myself and my sire bonded to dragons when we were very young, and I want our children to do the same. For whichever one doesn't get the egg, I also have an amulet - a less life-changing prize, admittedly, but a gift nonetheless. You may decide which of them receives what." She is their mother, after all, and the one who will have to live with the consequence of choosing one above the other.

Grey eyes watch impassively as one of the foals struggles to his feet; a jet black colt, his mother's skull-white face but his father's white forelegs. Pride wells up in the beast as he sniffs at the colt, who looks rather alarmed and reverses backwards into his mother's side. As Tyradon sniffs, so too does Cynder, and the brute feels puzzlement flashing down their bond. She cannot articulate her words clearly, so instead sends images, and the beast begins to get the picture. "Cynder is detecting something in both of them - she seems to think they can both bond to more than one companion. Says they have something of the dragon about them, something she has never seen before. Impossible, surely." He does hope the green is correct; if so, then that really does make these twins something special. Kings and queens in the making.

Stony gaze shifts down as Confutatis elevates a hindleg dangerously, his ears flickering momentarily backwards. How could he have forgotten how irritable mares could be after birth? She is perhaps right to wonder over his lack of sympathy, but she should take it as a compliment that the black behemoth does not ask about her wellbeing. He values her strength; she is not some feeble filly quaking at the pain this process undoubtedly causes. No, she is a vampire queen, daughter of bones - she needs no hollow words of concern, because he takes it as a given that she is fine, that she will simply get on with it. She has felled empires, fought demons, and surely this pales into insignificance compared to that? Also, he is an insensitive little shit and cares little for the pain caused - what is agony compared to the pleasure he gave her in the conception, and the glory these children will bring her?

She announces that the girl will receive the egg, and he resists the spasm of disappointment. He is sexist, after all, and values sons to a greater extent than daughters, but he supposes he cannot begrudge the little grullo girl her prize. It is she that receives the full force of his silver gaze now, as he looks her up and down; yes, strong. A worthy suitor of the black egg. So it is the boy that will receive the amulet, and he summons Cynder to his back to untangle the gem from its position in his mane. She carries it forwards, thin membrane-wings batting at the air as she moves towards the colt - trusting that she will be allowed to approach him, if not her bonded - and as she does, Confutatis' magic fills it, making it glow an eerie green before settling back into its usual blue tones. Tyradon's head dips sharply, pleased. His son shall have something, at least. The little black boy looks suitably petrified at the sight of a lime-green, flame-tailed, many-toothed predator flying at him, but a stern glare from his sire makes the colt think twice about trying to flee or giving into his fear. The jade war-dragon perches gently on the moist and still-bloodied young withers, fastening the amulet securely into his tufty mane with dextrous fingers before soaring back down to the black egg.

Through their bond, the obsidian monolith can feel her sorrow at losing the egg she holds so dear, but she does not complain as she rolls it gently towards the filly. Cynder looks up to the young girl and releases a small chirp - take good care of it, she begs with her eyes and her posture. With one final look at it, she returns to her favoured perch between the stallion's ears, her tail twitching unhappily. You have hatchlings, I have none. He releases a small snort; his war-dragon does not need offspring, surely! Maternal instincts are below duty-orientated creatures like her.

Colossal head jerks in response to Confutatis' words; yes, their twins have an advantage already. To think, them both bonding to two dragons! The image of a bronze flashes from Cynder's eyes to Tyradon's mind, and he absently gives a lazy smile of delight - he agrees, at least one of his children should bond to a royal. But the nudging of Cynder's mind against his makes him realise that this is no vision conjured up from her subconscious; it is real. His head snaps to the side, whole massive frame shifting to stand between this strange stallion and his newborns, lips peeling and Cynder drawing herself up with a savage hiss - but as the dun draws closer, the warlord realises that he is familiar. He remembers the slickness of his body brought into the earth from the womb of a daughter - borne of the loins of an unknown stallion with a bronze dragon, if he remembers correctly. Yes, he had been quite willing to let any stud bonded to a royal have his way with his daughters, as, after all, Tyradon himself would not service a related mare and it seemed a shame to let his daughters remain eternal maidens. He would often give them to his warriors within the herd but after a few years the majority of his subjects were blood-related, so the occasional outcrossing to rogue equines was always an option - provided the vagabond was strong, of course. Pleasure burns through him at the fact his grandson has grown from gangly colt to mighty young stallion, and bonded to a bronze, no less!

"Argen," he greets, posture relaxing. At the sight of another dragon, Cynder practically has hearts in her eyes, and abandons her bonded in favour of soaring towards the bronze with gusto. She is older than he, but he is royal, and is given due respect as her flame-tail waves like a happy dog, aiming to touch her snout to Solomon's. Tyradon rolls his eyes. Cynder has razed herds to the ground, slain hundreds with talon and flame, yet she is a complete slut for the attention of other dragons, especially royals. After all, he reasons, she is still a child in mind, if not body, and there is a certain immaturity about the way she is prone to forsaking duty to spend time with other dragons. Tyradon himself looks at the bronze with considerable pride, though, so he supposes he will excuse Cynder on this occasion. "He is quite magnificent, what is his name?" Perhaps he will be able to persuade Argen to leave Helovia with him - there are several fillies in his herd who would go weak-kneed at the sight of his grandson and his royal.

Realising Confutatis may not be best pleased at the proximity of the other male, Tyradon is quick to make introductions. "Confutatis, this is my grandson, Argen. Argen, Confutatis...and our children." The younger stallion enquires as to the twins' names, and Tyradon's gaze shifts to the colt. He contemplates naming him after his father, yet there is nothing special enough about this boy to warrant the use of such a name. Instead he decides to go for something similar, to keep up the theme of terra, of the earth from which the great Nieque himself was created. "The boy will be Volterra, after my father Terrador the Earthmover. And the girl..." He looks quizzically at Confutatis, so generously giving her the option to name their daughter.

Confutatis' reaction pleases him - he likes a mare willing to forsake her own discomfort to defend her offspring. His children will be in good hands with the war-woman, and he fully expects them to grow strong, into little conquerers who will bend and crush and fuck the world before them. He will be able to have little part in their upbringing - his herd needs him, needs his guidance and his flag above their heads as they march to war. He wants to stay, to see how colt and filly grow, but he cannot. He must return to his duties.

Nymeria is the girl's name, and he likes it. Volterra and Nymeria. Dragon-king and witch-queen, reunited. Confutatis' offer for Argen to be involved in their lives, and his grandson's acceptance, please the warmonger greatly, and convince him that his children will grow up strong with a masculine influence in their lives. "Thank you, Argen. I could think of nobody I would trust more in my stead," he says. Cynder flies around with the bronze, excited chattering emitting from her jaws and Tyradon can feel her pleasure at the bronze's company; a friend. She is lonely in their other herd, as Tyradon is the only one with a dragon. She has spent most of her life alone, with just the black beast for company, and whilst she obviously adores him, she still craves contact with her own species. Tyradon will not begrudge her this, and he watches with the hint of a smile around his grey eyes at the sheer happiness that radiates from his green. "A fine name," he adds, gaze lingering on Solomon. He cares little for the fact Argen's father had dismounted and simply left, because Tyradon himself has done similar countless times before. He has little time for clingy mares who hang onto their lover's coat-tails, and trains his daughters to expect similar treatment - it is in a stallion's nature to take his pleasure and go. Of course, raising their offspring to be strong is always a bonus, but not an obligation. "If I catch sight of him on my travels, Argen, I will be sure to notify him that you are looking for him." He thinks he would recognise the man with his bronze, if it came to it. But, he muses, perhaps Argen does not need his father, as he has become so great without.

A sigh leaves the lord's nostrils, then. "I wish I could remain and speak with you, Argen, and you, Confutatis, and help to raise the children, but I need to get back to my herd. I dread to think what state they are in after so many months without me." He had sent Cynder back regularly to check in and bring messages back and forth, but it wasn't the same. He looks to Argen, addressing the younger man directly. "If you ever grow tired of Helovia, send Solomon in search of Cynder - she will lead you to me. There are many women in my empire who would love to get to know you." The smirk upon the behemoth's face makes it apparent what he's talking about. Head dips for one final time in Argen's direction before he looks to Confutatis and the twins. "And you, vampire. When they are old enough to conquer without us, my kingdom could use you as its queen." Sharp muzzle extends, aiming to touch his nose to hers in perhaps the softest gesture he's ever attempted towards her - he retracts his nose sharpish, though, in case she should still be in her no-touching stage of afterbirth.

He looks down to the children then, grey eyes fixing on Confutatis as his muzzle extends again to try and blow softly on first colt, then filly. He wants to touch them at least once before he goes; perhaps he does have a heart after all. He wants them to know his scent at least, to have an image of him in their minds as they grow from wet little weaklings into all-devouring demons. With that the monstrous stallion turns and begins to move away at a thunderous trot, towards the outskirts of Helovia and his waiting herd outside. He feels Cynder's reluctance to leave the bronze dragon; first she coos her sad farewell to Solomon, then touches her scaled nose to the black egg, before she flies swiftly after her bonded and circles high above him with her flame-tail leaving a trail of smoke behind her.

Beast and dragon move away together, away from their beloved family and towards their duty.