She comes from nowhere.

Against the backdrop of snow, she is a simple white blur. She is the siren in the blizzard, the ghost shrouded in a cloak of ice; he squints through his mask, trying to make her out, trying to size her up. The dragons help, their sharp eyes seeing through the haze of flakes to help him ascertain what he's going up against - she's far smaller than him, far weaker than him, but that refined build just reeks of stamina. She'll be able to go the distance, even if she cannot hope to rival him in pure unbridled power. It does not escape his notice that she's a pretty little thing, too, and his crimson gaze turns suddenly lecherous as he admires the firm contours of her body.

TYRADON!

The leviathan's blood runs cold. His entire body freezes, as though turned to ice by the blizzard conditions that surround him. His heartbeat pulses in his ears, his muscles tense and rippling with the shock. His father. She knows his father.

And she's charging.

Confusion darts across those handsome features of his; how can she think that he is Tyradon? But the realisation suddenly hits him with a force to rival the blizzard - the skull mask that rests upon his face obscures the fact that a broad blaze lies beneath it, not a teardrop star. Amidst the hazy storm, it would be hard to tell that the eyes beneath the mask are hot crimson, not cold grey. In all other respects, the stallion and his father are almost identical; both black with white forelegs, both mammoths, both perfect examples of raw draft power and testosterone, of steel bodies and iron minds. They are both dragon-lords, albeit he is bonded to red and gold rather than green.

How could you? They were innocent children. The words are daggers to his heart. No. He only met his father once, but he has elevated the blurry memory of the hulking black monolith onto a pedestal of respect. His mother told him tales of the Warbringer's greatness, of empires crushed beneath his hooves and herds laid to ruin by his wrath. She did not speak of child murder. And if there is one thing Volterra cannot abide, it is the harming of a foal. The notion that his own father may have done something so repugnant....he is suddenly sick to his stomach, and fighting quickly becomes the last thing on his mind. "I am not Tyradon! What...what did he do to your children?" Volterra is not the sort of man to fear things, especially on the battlefield, but the possible answer makes his gut twist in apprehension.

But she's still charging, and he has to react. As she comes for his left side with her antlers lowered like a raging stag, he swings his massive weight around to try and bring himself facing her. It is just enough to prevent her from crashing directly into him; instead, her left antler drags down the full length of his left side, ripping the flesh until it flaps like meat in the wind. The cut is medium-depth and the cold air dampens the initial surge of agony, but a hiss of displeasure slips from the stallion's lips as he realises that the injury is probably worse than it feels.

He should stop to speak to her. Reason with her. Find out his father's sins, so he can condemn them. But before all else, Volterra is a man. He is a warlord. He is a beast, a primal and impulse-riddled creature, and every muscle in his body screams at him to retaliate. He asked for a fight; he will fight. His father's misdemeanours will not keep him from valuable battle experience.

He launches his head to the left, trying to bite the mare's left flank as it zooms past him, assuming she won't be able to stop in time with the slippy conditions underfoot. He hopes to pepper her hindquarters with sharp nips, trying to assert his authority and punish her for her attack to his side.

Above him, Vadir sees the griffin soaring towards her, taking it as a challenge. She gives an imperious screech, disgusted at the audacity of the creature; how dare it attempt to attack her, queen of dragons? She swings herself neatly out of the way of the griffin's blows, launching upwards to give herself the dominant position; in one fluid movement she throws her massive weight suddenly down again, aiming to wrap her limbs around the griffin and slam it into the ground. Her jaws open to send a searing blast of flame forwards, attempting to incinerate the creature until naught remains but ashes. Vérzés hangs back, content to watch his golden sister at work for now.

______________

Teaching spar for @Arah ! Sorry for the wait, I'm not normally this slow but Christmas + illness D:

1/3 -799 words