ORIGIN

Dread had spent the days since his altercation with Haven going about his normal life. Mostly he'd tried not to think about the short spat, simply because he hated thinking about other dragons in his home cave. But he'd been mostly true to his word--he'd added the other dens to his list of places to check over as he lazed or flew about, or hunted. Once or twice a day in his rounds of Leo he'd slam down on the lip of the place where "Haven's mate" apparently dozed in a chrysalis, and sniff around for any signs of intrusion. And he circled Haven's new den with its tree overtop, or kept an eye on it from afar. He didn't talk to her, though; he had no real desire to, and some part of him was still suspicious and wary of her presence here.

Other than this he hunted, and dozed in the 'sunshine,' and slept atop his hoard.

It was worth noting that Dread's hoard, his den, was in two parts. It was all contained in one of the rocky outcrops jutting up from Leo's sea, and the top was a hollow, a couple wind-stunted trees and some foliage clinging to its fairly broad surface. A few crystals and gemstones along with the hide and bones of his prey lay here. A second den, where he slept more deeply, was a cave half-cut through the center of this outcrop, lower down, where Dread kept his hoard proper. There was no way to reach either of these by walking alone. One would have to fly to them, or swim and then overcome the breakers before scaling sheer, uneven rock. Within the enclosed cave-den were his real treasures; singing crystals and chunks of gold, old armor scraps and gemstones.

When Haven touched down atop the outcrop, the place he roosted more than slept, he bristled at once. Spines rose along his neck, and he shot up, mantling wings-out over his meagre collection here like a hawk over a carcass. Ember eyes narrowed at her presence.

At first, he simply stared at her, resenting her presence here with or without her prey.

"I AM DREAD," he snarled, at last, gaze cutting down to the deer in her claws. It didn't occur to him that this might be some sort of trick, specifically, but he was distrustful of her nonetheless. Moreso at his very den, which to him, no one should intrude upon.

But... a gift? He deliberated, wavering on tolerating her long enough to accept whatever this gift was. "WHAT GIFT? IS IT THAT? WHY?" he asked, at last.

He studied her with narrowed eyes, suspicious of this good will. But... there was some precedent for it. Flickering memories rose of Asimona, of her gifts to a hatchling in Fornax; was this the same? He didn't hate Haven, but he did not like her; she was, in his mind, an ugly and deformed thing and her initial hostility had left its mark. It wasn't her burns that bothered him, but her lack of eyes, her un-dragon-like details on a dragon's obvious shape. It unnerved him; it was uncanny valley, a dragon that was "not quite right." Still, he could have gotten past that if her initial greeting had not been a demand that he turn back from her territory, in what he'd viewed as his own. That had left a bad taste, a lingering thing that could better be called "not liking" rather than outright dislike, though he hardly remembered the reason himself by now.

"THIS IS MY DEN. I DON'T WANT OTHERS IN MY DEN." And then he hesitated, adding with almost reluctance: "YOU ONLY NEED TO BRING CRYSTALS SOMETIMES AND I WILL WATCH THOSE PLACES. NOT FOOD." Just in case she thought she had to bribe him, or something, to keep his end of the deal. It seemed that he had a mind for fair exchange, at least.

A hind limb came up, driving talons into the deer to pin it down, and he paused as if for confirmation of his last statement. Then he dug in, jaws twisting down to rip away a hunk or two of meat, which he tossed his head back to gulp down whole. In between bites, he spoke, only briefly studying Haven. The gold of his horn-rings glinted with each movement. "I DON'T KNOW? DO THEY FEEL BAD?" He seemed confused by the very question. Despite finding her dragon-but-not-dragon-appearance disturbing, he had little care for things like beauty past the aesthetic appreciation of it; he'd never given a single thought to vanity in that regard, and thus couldn't comprehend it in others. Why was she asking if it was bad? Wouldn't she know? Shouldn't she know better than him?

BUT SHE CAN'T SEE IT. MAYBE SHE CAN'T FEEL IT RIGHT, he reasoned (and yes, even his thoughts were practically shouted in his own mind). He studied them more closely.

He'd inflicted a multitude of burns, both on enemies and prey. Sometimes they were merely blistered patches, other times he'd scorched whole herds of tunnel runners black. This was scarring, melted flesh that would leave marks.

"IT LOOKS PRETTY BAD?" he suggested, unsure. Another bite of meat, swallowed down; he sounded, if anything, unconcerned. Neither insulting, or apologetic; he wasn't attaching emotion to it as Haven might. "I WOULD KEEP THEM CLEAN. I TOLD YOU BONE CAN HEAL THINGS, IF IT STILL IS BAD."

If anything, Dread would've seen scars with pride, as badges of battle; it didn't occur to him to view physical beauty as a matter of personal value.

Oh--and his manners. The one bit he'd ever learned: "THANK YOU FOR THE DEER," he said.

"SCENT-?" he echoed, puzzled. "I JUST DON'T WANT ANYBODY IN MY DEN. IT'S MY DEN." Explanation given, he finished off the deer, leaving stripped hide and limbs behind. He seemed content enough with Haven hovering, rather than perched on his outcrop.

He licked his jaws, considering, eyeing her where she hovered. "YOU KEEP SAYING NEIGHBORS. I DON'T NEED A NEIGHBORS." He likely had no idea of the word, but he didn't want to be any closer to Haven than he was. Dread had no need for socializing, and outside his family he had no interest in it, really. Tolerance might grow into it but he was, apparently, not the sort easily drawn in. At least, not with other dragons. In the same matter of fact tone, he went on: "YOU CAN BE NICE," as if giving permission. Then he hesitated.

Dread wanted to explain that Haven's presence made him uncomfortable--that he didn't want her close; that some instinct drove him to scream and thrash his tail and roar and drive opponents out. That bargaining to keep her "protected" was to fool himself as much as anything, so he had an excuse not to just kill others. He didn't mind the occasional interaction with Gembound: trading, speaking, teaching, fighting. But dragons in "his" cave kept his hackles--or rather, spines--up, and he didn't like that. Some part of him was aware that Haven probably deserved an explanation for this, given her attempt to reach out--but he wasn't sure how to say it. This manifested in hesitation, in a distant blink and thoughtful look (as much as Dread could manage, with his serpentine facial structure). What he settled on was, "I GET ALONG AS LONG AS EVERYONE KNOWS IT IS MY CAVE, AND DOESN'T TELL ME IT'S THEIRS, AND DON'T COME INTO MY DEN." The sentence was a little mixed up, and he paused again, unsure if he'd said it right or if he sounded hostile. It hadn't been intended as such.

"SHOW ME TO THE FORGE," he decided, giving up on all of that.

Dread did not know, at first, where Haven had gone. His own cliff rock shot sheer up from the deep waters of Leo, and she'd gone somewhere to touch the sea. He could hear her, in the distance, calling her words back to him but predictably his only response (spines rising along his neck) was to shout back, "THIS IS MY CAVE!"

It was strange, however; the words seemed insistent, as if there was something that Dread thought Haven wasn't getting, rather than simply hostile.

Annoyed, he watched her down below--low to the water, wherever she'd gone, now flapping off toward the volcano. With a grunt he launched off his pinnacle and swept down to follow.

Dread was not a slow or heavy being. He was lightly-built, streamlined, his abdomen tightly tucked up; he was built for speed, for agility, with broad and powerful wings. He fell gradually behind, though he didn't rush; he slowed, instead, exulting in the feel of the warm sea wind coursing over his wings and scales. As was their habit, a few of the seabirds rose up to "escort" him, expecting the scraps he occasionally tossed them; he indulged this, their small pale forms little shadows of his own.

Dread set down neatly, beating his wings with billowing flaps and falling to near vertical as he slowed. Talons touched down, weight shifted to his legs and then he rocked forward, landing heavily on his wings. Spines raised with interest as he looked around, studying this new place.

He followed Haven at a wing-walk, pondering it.

"HAVE YOU SEEN MONOCEROS? THAT WAS MY OLD CAVE. IT WAS HOT, LIKE THIS PLACE." Nostrils flared as he took in the odors of sulfur and molten rock.

"THAT PLACE IS PAST THE ROOM WITH ALL THE LITTLE LIGHTS AND CRYSTALS. AND THE TUNNEL HAS OLD METAL IN IT." ...Questionable information, but probably the closest Dread came to casual conversation, at least.