The sound hit Nymeria like a physical being, a thunderous, pulsing roar that shorted her brain's wiring. She was struck utterly dumb by the agony festering within that dire sound, the love and rage and terror—it was strangely beautiful in its hurt, and she… she fell prey to it. It rang a chord within her, a familiar one often played upon; a sort of dire longing for what could not be, a raging attempt at victory when there was none to be had. She sympathized, for no matter how unholy or monstrous that thing was (to be capable of such a sound), nobody deserved that sort of hopelessness.

Dangerous, Lilómiel told her with a cluck and bite. Nymeria exhaled in waspish return, swishing her tail in sycophantic disapproval. The dragon did not bother with a sarcastic return, instead spreading his wings and taking off into fleeting flight. In the darkness of the forest, he became a nothingness, a blasphemous smear that forever hovered at the precipice of vision.

They wander neither here nor there, listening but not infringing. Unlike her dumbass brother, Nymeria was not about to go charging into the heart of those hideous, heart-rending sounds; she preferred her skin intact, thank you very much. It was only when the sounds died down (perhaps literally) that the bonded pair began to make their way towards what they had determined to be the source. As they moved, they did so with particular care. Lilómiel scouted out a path ahead, his wings making nary a sound; Nymeria awaited his clearance before following. Every step she took was muffled with leaf mould, and she toed her hooves beneath shed twigs and branches in extra precaution.

They ebb in like the tide, so slowly and casually that one would not notice their approach until they were on top of them.

At last, the bonded pair see the cause of commotion.

Volterra, Lilómiel tells her; but they do not see him first. No, first Nymeria sees carnage wherever she looks: blood and bodies and shattered egg shells, exposed bone and guts. It reeks like something hellish—like rot and iron and burnt hair. Her upper lip twists as she better draws in the mingle of scents; and yes, beneath the destruction there is the tell-tale smell of sweat and stallion. Without word, Nymeria’s gaze sweeps towards her sweating and fearsome brother. He is hunched over a clutch of eggs; she feels vaguely ill.

There’s a howl of lament; Lilómiel shrieks in repose. The black dragon flaps forward to follow his scarlet brethren, sweet concern flavouring his thoughts. Nymeria ignores it—it’s dragon business—and strides towards Volterra, arrogant and callous and cold.

“Volt,” she calls, “what did you do?"