The red drake seems pleased with his offering, pleased enough that the old stallion genuinely hopes he heard the unspoken 'eventually' in his words and will let the inevitable come to him naturally, instead of in some horrifying display of draconian lethality. He wrings his lips in a circular motion to dispel the flash of cold laid there by the red-scaled's breath and sneezes suddenly, a tremor running down the uneven stair-step of his spine, raising the hairs along his unmarked dorsal line briefly.

"No, not the first." He replies, sniffling. Confusion creases his weathered brow. He'd thought dragons were supposed to breathe fire, to burn and incinerate with their breath, not freeze things. He's heard plenty of stories about dragons, but he wonders now if any of them are true or if they've simply been told and retold so many times without first-hand experience that there's no truth left to them anymore.

"I've seen a few here and there, usually from a distance." They don't seem to be overly sociable creatures - says the reclusive codger - and tend to leave their bondmates to their own devices when it comes to domestic appearances, at least in his limited experience, but maybe they're just preoccupied with their own social hierarchy if the color and gender of individuals is as important as the other stallion claims, or if the gold's disposition is the more normal of the two. He hadn't missed her little display of knotting a snippet of vine or the way she primps and puffs out her chest at the stallions declaration of 'Queen."

"They come out at night sometimes. I can see the threading of veins in their wings by moonlight." The other companions come out at night too. Hawks, eagles, owls, all spiraling and zig-zaging across the sky in their search for prey. Wolves and cats and other carnivorous beasts prowl below, rustling the underbrush almost imperceptibly. He supposes they hunt in the dark to avoid disturbing their herbivorous bondmates, though he can think of a few who'd probably relish the chance to mentally tune in to a killing blow. Sickos.

"I've never seen anyone with two dragons before though. How'd you get so lucky?" He tries not to emphasize the 'you' as if the white-faced stallion is somehow less worthy of status elevating mythical companions, but envy and jealously are ugly, ill-concealed emotions. It's not that he thinks the muscular, battle scared youth is undeserving - even a grudging old man can see that he's the picture of masculine perfection - it's just that he knows that he deserves at least as much as anyone else, maybe more. "Got a nest hidden away somewhere?"


OOC // @Volterra