Condemned to Predetermined

The death of the Sultan hadn't escaped the skull marked colt, not when he saw what upset and hurt it had brought to his ma. He doesn't like, no he loathes the idea that anyone could blame her for the former Sultan's passing, it wasn't her fault after all. He's not big enough to shield her like his pa could, but be damned if he'd keep his mouth shut should anyone aim a verbal barb her way. His knowledge is limited on Gaucho, he is a brief image of fire and dun which resonates from memories he had at birth, stood to the side offering his mother healing. It's in the blurry streak of fire which often soared over the throat, followed by murmured, admiring comments and snippets of nearby herd members. Tyrath doesn't mourn, though he feels a strange sort of something — an acknowledgement of something great had left the world, that so much power had whispered into the wind on a pillar of fire.

Instead, he focuses on the fact that his ma and his father are now both in the Throat — that his ma is Sultana now, blessed no less by his Grandfather. Pride and happiness blossomed in his young chest for her, crimson eyes alight with encouragement whenever he spotted her. He's not sure what his father will do yet, whether it's a permanent stay, or simply he's here until the tides changed and off he goes to the mainland once more. He's content that his family is all together, somewhat, there's still siblings out there that don't call the sands home.

Dragon's Throat! Please come to me!

Ears pressed forward as the soft, albeit harsh notes of Sikeax's summons are heard. His head raised from it's spot upon trodden down grasses and his spindled legs give a stretch outward, wings also stretched toward the sky to shake the idleness from their bones. He's never heard her call like that, and he assumed it's had something to do with her new position. With that in mind, he rose and hoisted himself into the air with a running leap, caught on the heated winds of the Throat.

It was easy to find her, her champagne coat shimmered in the sunlit like a vision, a beacon that all could follow. A miniature sun. Tyrath landed beside her after a brief circle around the gathered group already there, wings folded neatly against his sides while his nose sought her neck to press a fleeting token of affection to her. Soon enough, she began speaking and the colt fell into statuesque silence while his eyes flitted over all present. Words spared towards the untimely demise of Gaucho are met with an unreadable response on his changing features. Only the pale mare drew any kind of acknowledgement from the tribrid, an ear turned toward where she stood before it returned to it's stoic vigil.

The Unbound didn't draw surprise from him either, he had met one of their idiotic kin in the threshold with his ma. An embarrassment was an understatement, and it provoked a snort from his ember stoked nostrils. The colt was glad Sikeax was pushing to have them removed like a stain on a pristine silk cloak. It was a shame he wasn't old enough to join in, he would of delighted at the chance to aid in ridding them permanently. He'd just have to settle on what the warriors and spies would tell him, if he could get them to share the tales of their hunts.


When Volterra's name is mentioned, naturally his body shifted into something more engaged and present, crimson pits search the crowd for his formidable apa as Sikeax voiced that he had been promoted to Gladiator. A Smile appeared on his fanged maw and the fires upon his spine burned much more fiercely, head bobbed once toward his apa as a form of congratulations. It was not quite king, but an impressive title for an equally impressive behemoth forged from the fires of battle.