On the ground, their bonded watches with fierce eyes, his muscular limbs sunk up to the knee in a snowdrift that he's hardly even noticed, so great is his concentration. He does not generally encourage his dragons to fight, in the vain hope of fostering some semblance of a loving relationship between them, but it has also not escaped his attention that they are both woefully inexperienced at fighting others of their species. Should Volterra ever come up against a dragon-bonded equine, he wants his mind-partners to be prepared, so they can decimate anything put in their way.

Both red and gold are only too happy to follow his instructions - Vérzés hungers to break apart scale colour hierarchy and prove his dominance over the queen, whereas Vadir sees it as her birthright to put the obnoxious little red in his place. They are evenly-matched, because despite Vadir's inferior age, she is already the same size as Vérzés, which pleases the young stallion no end. She is going to be a monster when she is fully-grown, a queen in all senses of the word. "Keep at it," he commands them both, demanding that they put every ounce of their strength into this. They're both too strong to get badly hurt, and neither of them pull their punches in their quest to assert their authority over the other. They roll and thrash, a blur of iridescent gemstones in the weak morning light, neither able to gain the upper hand.

Their tails twist against each other's wings and, with a cacophony of screams and bellows, they crash towards the ground. With a heavy thump they land in the thick snow and sink down into it, still snapping and biting at each other with the gusto of beasts. Volterra watches, impassive, a hulking black rock against the white landscape, his tail twisting idly between his powerful thighs.

In the cold of the north, her child shivers against her side, letting out the soft, painful sounds of a cough that just doesn’t want to go away. She’s started counting how many times it’s happened in the past day. It’s starting to push thirty coughs, ones that every time they show up, she makes sure to stop and let him catch his breath and rest, to lie down if he feels is needed, only after making sure that everything in her power can be done to protect him for the snow.
Right now, his young body is pulled up in the snow, releasing coughs like he’d never stop their barge. Do you think my magic would work on him? Hobgoblin shifts uncomfortably from his perch, changing his weight from one talon to another, red eyes hung to the boy. While he doesn’t care for many, the boy brings him some sort of worry.
Or it could be a vein from Sikeax, strong enough that it flows down his IV into his system. Whatever it is, each cough is making this journey more and more unsettling.
“Zhu need to go home. Zhu sick. Zhu no need to be here.”
They both know he’s right, and as the fit does slowly recede, taking as much time as it possibly can, her son seems prepared for the trip once more.
Her muzzle presses into his frail ribs, pushing with enough force that it forces him to stir, whining as premature sleep is taken away. “I’m sorry, dear, but you can’t sleep here. It’s not safe.” Another way of saying that sleeping in the snow is sure to bring death.
In the time that it takes for young Zhu to stand, Hobgoblin’s impatience finally strikes a nerve. “Zhu need to move faster. Zhu too slow.”
Then you go.
A huff, flung out into the dead silence, sports his feelings towards the situation at hand perfectly. As much as he could seem to care for Zhu’s existence and well being, having the child along in the North was never going to work. He was just too slow, too weak for these things.
“I stay. Zhu need-”
Screaming. The sheer shock of it is enough to bring the boy tumbling downwards, stumbling on his weak legs until the snow moves to swallow him up. Sikeax’s rescue is swift, and obviously lacking the aid of Hobgoblin. He’s too far caught up in the battle that unfolds right before their very eyes, watching as gold and red clash into a flurry of talons, teeth and wings, screaming their rage like it’ll never be contained.
And oh, how beautiful of a sight is it to see, to watch them do such a magical and graceful, yet violent dance before him.
“Look.”
After some time of watching this unfold, it is then that he recognizes the blood scales of another, one kind enough to offer him food, to even go as far enough as to hunt for him. A small chirp rips from his jaws without second thought.
“Blood dragon back.”
Blood dragon?
“Dragon that give food.”
Zhu leans against her thinning stomach, small ears twisting and moon eyes wide with curiosity until he finds the jackpot, the source of all this unholy commotion. He can’t seem to care that his mother is so very obviously uncomfortable, that she wants to leave and is making attempts at doing just that. He doesn’t care at all, yanking out badly formed words from his mouth to try and ask her exactly what those things are.
He wants to know if they’ll be like Hobgoblin, able to change their bodies into different things when they want. “They’re dragons. Not like Hobgoblin. They’re a different thing.” It doesn’t help that to speak to him that she must be loud, speaking high enough that he can hear and actually understand what she’s trying to say, and at the same time, be louder than the fighting dragons. “Those two dragons, they’re not good. Or at least the red one. Red one is-” She checks, scanning for Him, hoping, praying that he wouldn’t be around, that this would just be a rogue pair of dragons or possibly that this red dragon that Hobgoblin was talking about was nothing more than a wild one, not that specific dragon.
“It’s not safe to be around them like this, not when you’re this young.” He can’t seem to find the issue with them, they’re only fighting, far enough away that they are no threat. Hobgoblin is crying out now, screeching madly and thrashing about mid-air in a flurry of excitement. She wants him to stop, to shut up once and for all so that they don’t have to risk anything.
But the sky is now lacking two dragons, and the space left behind is filled with the silver blur of her Rougarou, wailing out his cries of encouragement to the red one.
Hobgoblin, stop.
“Blood one still fighting gold one. Blood one good.”
There is nothing good about that single dragon, regardless of what he chooses to think, and as her son seems to be as thoroughly caught up in this situation as herself, the chances of escaping Him seem lower and lower. Zhu is too slow to make the run through the snow, and Hobgoblin, well, he simply choose not to care.

OOC: Hobgoblin is in his Wyvern form.
They're sort of standing off to the side as of the moment and watching the dragons fight. I'm going to keep playing Zhu alongside Sikeax up until she leaves, which should be pretty quick.
talk talk talk

When his head turns and his eyes drink in the dragon that isn't, his mind immediately begins to roam over where he knows the creature from. His sharp brow furrows, his savage red eyes absorbing each detail of the wyvern. Where do I.....ah. He remembers; the memory smacks him like a wrecking ball and brings a dirty little smirk to the corners of his mouth. His red had fed the creature, and in return Volterra had fed on her. His balls tingle at the memory - it's been a while since he had any action, and the fact the creature is here means the mare could be, too. Perhaps she's come for a second dose? The thought fills him with filthy glee.

Stop, he commands his dragons. Still hissing and spitting, they break apart and take to the sky, neither of them satisfied that they haven't been able to defeat the other. Vérzés recognises the wyvern that he fed, and snorts an appreciative half-greeting to him for his cries of encouragement, but Vadir studiously ignores the lesser companion and lands on a nearby snow-covered rock to clean her gleaming golden scales.

The stallion turns, his massive hooves crunching on the thick snow as he allows his feral red eyes to devour the unicorn mare. So intense is his focus on her that it takes him a good few minutes to notice the smaller, frailer form beside her. Curiosity gets the better of him and he shifts his gaze downwards towards the child.

His heart skips a beat, then jumps into his mouth. A child. A child beside the mare who he fucked, and he can't see a mare just taking a random child out for a walk in the snowy north with her. It has to be hers. His mind races, darting over dates, working out the foal's approximate age and crossing it with the time of their tryst, trying to work out what's happened, what he's done.

Dread fills him. "What," he says, his eyes wide, his voice holding something akin to a quiver. "is that?" And he gestures with his nose to the child, the boy, the black, feather-footed boy, the son. His son.

We need to go.
Hobgoblin doesn’t come back down, crying more and more up until the fight ends, watching with second-hand adrenaline still coursing through his veins. Sikeax had forbid him to fight, and the dragons seemed different from him, with their breaths of flame and different sizes and colours, their fear of the sea and ice as if it’d kill them if it touched them. He wonders what it must be like to stand over them, to sink his teeth into their flesh and watch them wither and die when his many forms amount to skyscrapers before their feeble shacks.
He wants to see one prevail, hopefully the blood one who some sort of respect is tied to for the food, to stand over the gold one. The greeting is met with a low chirp, turning his head towards the golden one, staring with eyes full of wonder.
“Where new dragon come from?”
This isn’t time to have conversations. I don’t want Zhu here.
A short snarl is directed at it before taking off, reaching his throne atop his bonded, thus using his title to watch the coming show, because here comes the one she is so scared of. Zhu’s ears prick forward, alert, prepared for something interesting, expecting another repeat of his mother’s verbal assaults. 'Was that how all adults greet one another?'
She’d kept him hidden away enough that there was no way to be exactly sure, but it doesn’t keep him for wondering.
His white face and red eyes are an insult to her, an insult to her son’s existence, a poison that taints his blood. She’d give her own life to ensure that Zhu doesn’t indeed end up like his father, disgusting, uncaring, thinking only of sex and seeing nothing out of the world but that. If her son was there and if she wasn’t being forced to set an example for him, then this might go differently.
But not today, because he needs to know that this man is his father, and this stranger needs to know that he has willingly fathered a child.
The urge to spit clots her words. The look on his face is almost laugh worthy. Hobgoblin is quick enough to do it for her, spewing out screeches that in rhythm could match that of laughter.
“Skullface lost! Skullface almost as stupid as Monster!"
There's a little need to actually smile, to take part in the glee that rises out of Hobgoblin when the man is reminded of the outcome of sex. Zhu is left confused, out of the conversation and having no way to become involved.
"Are you an idiot, or blind? Did your mother never teach where children come from, even what a child is, where they come from, those sort of things, or have you messed up your eyes? Did you think that sex never has an outcome on the other side?”
In the back of her head, she hopes that he is blind instead of stupid, and might just be smelling the weird smell that clung onto Zhu. She’d rather have become pregnant by a man who had gone blind instead of an idiot.
“It’s your son. Look at him. Doesn’t he look like you, because we both know that he has nothing of me in him.” A step aside let’s her son, their son to come into better view for him, allowing Zhu to stare with white eyes dazed and small head finally tilting to one side, left in awe at the sight of someone taller than his mother. The ‘dragons’ that she had spoken of just a few moments ago seem more interesting than whoever this is.
‘Is it going to cry again?’
A useless thought, but one important enough to make him flicker his ears backwards and stomps a hoof into the snow. Anything but crying.
“His name is Zhu, just in case you’re wondering.” And with a mention of his own name does the boy make a try at looking better, turning white eyes to his mother as if she has something for him, maybe a brag or compliment. Amusement is all over her face, painted on with enjoyment. “Did you not want to be a father?”
And here to think, he might really be that level of stupid.

talk talk talk

I have a son.

I'm a father.

I have a son.

Anguish races through him. He is a fool. With his youth, his arrogance, he thought he could take his pleasure where it was offered, empty his balls whenever he felt like, and avoid the consequences. He thought himself blessed, invincible; he thought that he would never fall victim to the accidents that plague other, lesser horses.

You fucking idiot. He is barely out of boyhood himself, and now look. He is not ready for fatherhood, for responsibility. He has created a new life - he carelessly thrust his seed into the empty womb of a mare, and he dares be surprised when something comes from that? The black titan isn't blessed, he isn't special. He cocks up, he makes mistakes, and one god damn huge mistake is stood demurely next to its mother, all jet-black fur and bone-marked spine.

The goliath's mouth is strangely dry, and it's a struggle to lubricate it enough to speak. "I know where children come from, woman," he snaps, ears flattened and lost in the roiling storm of his mane. He stomps one massive hoof, scattering snow, and looks between mare and colt. "I just...I didn't think that....that he could be mine." It sounds stupid, even as he's saying it. No doubt she'll ask why, and he'll have no answer. How can he explain to someone that he thought he was immune from creating children until he decides he wants them?

She demands he look at his son - his son, that sounds so bizarre - and whilst he is not one to submit to the demands of a woman, he obeys. He steps closer, looks the boy up and down. He's small and weedy (was I ever that small and weedy? Surely not) but there's strength in those feathered limbs, in that stout body, in the blood that pounds through those veins. He has potential. He has nothing of me in him, she says. "He has your horns," he petulantly points out.

The red dragon circles overhead, getting lower and lower until he's directly over the colt. He drinks in the foal's body, and mentally reports back to Volterra. "Your hatchling? Bit small. Why so small?" The stallion's attention wanders momentarily upwards to his companion. Because he's only a child, Vérzés. I was that small once, remember? He feels the dragon hunting for the memories, finding them, reliving them, before helpfully chiming in again: "I eat hatchling, if Vol-ter not want it? Make it go away." The blood-dragon's voice is hopeful but, alarmed, Volterra sends a hard mental stab in the red's direction. Not a chance. He's my responsibility now - I don't intend to kill him.

The mare gives the boy's name as Zhu, and Volterra nods absently. A good, strong name, for a good, strong young colt. He will grow up into a fine stallion, if given the correct training. And, muses the brute, he will sire powerful children, when he's of age. He will spread my genes further than I ever could by myself. There's no doubt that the beast will want children one day, to spread his powerful blood around Helovia and raise an empire like his father did, and although it's happened sooner than intended, he is trying to think of the positives here. At least he now knows he can sire children, ready for when he so chooses - it seems he's the epitome of virility, for better or for worse.

The unicorn's question makes his pinned ears rocket forwards, then back again. "Do I want to be a father? No, I fucking well don't. I have so much I need to accomplish before I even begin to consider fatherhood, but it looks like I am one now, doesn't it? I'm going to have to deal with it, and I will." His words are sharper than intended, harsher, filled with bitterness and anxiety and venom. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, shuts his eyes for a moment, allows his muscular body to relax and smother the telltale signs of his temper about to explode.

When his eyes open again, he fixes his gaze on the mare. When he speaks, his voice is softer than it's been before, almost kind - or as kind as his gruff baritone can possibly be. "I helped create him, so he is my responsibility as much as yours. I am not the sort of man to take the easy option and run away from the consequences of my actions. I'm a lot of things, but I am not a coward." He looks to the boy again, then back to the mare. "I will be his father. I will help you raise him, to the best of my ability."

And, just like that, he's signed on for something he never wanted, but that he's morally obliged to see through to the end.

Anger gets the better of her, and whether it be her’s or Hobgoblin’s, it’s building up into a storm. In the back of her head, Hobgoblin laughs. She can’t see why this is amusing to him, but apparently it is, listening to the repeat sounds of his amusement over all the misfortunes in front of him.
Outwardly, he is oddly composed, silver, barbed tail swinging limply beside her neck, looking as if he struggles to hold in what he feels inside. His eyes are stuck to the show now being performed behind him.
Her son’s side presses into her leg, feeling the low prod of his horns, listening to slow sigh heaving from his chest. Do you think he’ll start coughing again?
No answer, and she can’t afford to check, watching as His ears flatten, lunging barred teeth towards her. Her head jerks back in response, though she wishes she hadn’t, thinking about how she should have returned the favour and attacked, biting him in any way possible. Along her neck, Hobgoblin’s talons tighten, hissing as his head is the only one to extend forward, holding his jaws wide, threatening to do what Sikeax will not do.
Beside her, Zhu stumbles, working to collect himself after having shifted all of his weight into her. A snort of displeasure follows.
“Sikeax. My name is Sikeax. You either call me by that, or you don’t call me anything, because I will not be called ‘woman.’” A long snort follows, trying to push out the rage flowing through her system.
His next choice of words makes her regret their first encounter more. He fucked her, he made the conscious choice to have sex with her, and then pretended as if consequences wouldn’t happen. Fucking idiot.
She watches him follow her commands, follows his eyes as they move over their son, protectively waiting for the moment that he chooses to fuck up. Hobgoblin is more set on the dragon coming to join them, but offers no greeting as he did before. The rougarou’s features have become hard, furthering his empty appearance.
“You hate Skullface? Skullface no want Zhu?”
I don’t think he even cares for him.
“No Zhu for Skullface.”
This time around, she endures his words, listening quietly, lips drawn tight with her ears pushed forward, showing that she is indeed listening to him talk, but could care less for what he says. Right now, she knows with every fiber of her being, that she hates Him. He is nothing, a useless man who couldn’t even bare the fact that he had fathered a child. A sign of his childish being, how unprepared he was to take part in Zhu’s life.
But it’s not her choice whether or not Zhu is allowed to visit with his father. It would be Zhu’s and his father’s, her’s only when something was to go wrong that forced her to step in. She couldn’t keep them away from each other without some sort of pain.
“Then maybe, you should think about consequences before you act. Maybe you should grow up, and think that even though you’re enjoying what you’re doing right now, that it’s going to bite you in the ass in the future. Be a fucking adult.”
Zhu seems bored, no longer paying attention to either of his parents, hanging his moon eyes on every movement of the red and gold dragons, trying to keep track of all of their breaths and motions, held in awe of something pure, something that will never change. All he can think of right now is how much he wants them.
He’ll have a chance to visit with them now, because Sikeax pulls away from him, mumbling something he can’t understand. “Then spend some time with him. He’s got a cough because of the cold air, and has a slight hearing issue that messes up his speech, so don’t get angry if he can’t understand you.” She is already going, nudging her son’s small body once, saying a soft goodbye through a soft nicker to him. “Whenever he’s ready to go home, bring him to the Throat. And if something happens to him and I find out, may the Gods help you.”


OOC: Sia out! Just tag Zhu on your next reply.

talk talk talk

Another lecture follows and he bats his ears back, irritated. Don't push me, woman. Whether this will change the way he acts, it remains to be seen. He enjoys sex, the thrill, the pleasure, and he does not think he could give it up even if he wanted to. No, the only likely change that will come from this is that he will either ensure he beds mares that are not in heat, or that he spills his seed onto the ground instead of into their wombs. A slight niggling worry in the back of his mind questions whether perhaps he's sired others, but he chooses to force that aside. Best to focus on the child he definitely has, rather than the others he may have.

With instructions to bring him back to the Throat - to which the beast nods absentmindedly - the mare takes her leave. The stallion is left alone with his son, and suddenly he has no idea what he should be saying or doing. How does one talk to a child? "Hello there, Zhu." It concerns him that his dam mentioned a cough and a hearing impairment - he does not like the idea of a weak son, but he will hopefully grow out of his ailments when he's older. "What has your mother told you about me?" That seems to be a good starting point.

The red dragon resumes his circling in the heavens, whilst Vadir soars towards Volterra and lands heavily on his back. She is considerably heavier than her crimson brother, her weight more noticeable on the stud's spine, and she peers around his neck with a cold, impassionate gaze. The colt is of little interest to a queen such as herself, but if he is of her bonded's loins then perhaps she should deign to pay attention to him.