Dread didn't seem particularly set on either going in, or staying out, instead huddling near the barrier and considering Svartis' words.

"I tried!" Twin spurts of black smoke twined up from his nostrils in a snort. "Nothing happened!" He sounded annoyed at this--not at his son's asking, or even having to answer, but that his fire didn't come when called.

As for whether the thing would come out? Dread pushed far upright and peered over the ice barrier, eyes near-closed against the storm.

"It's still out there," he told his son; "...moving."

Not toward, or away, but... around. He couldn't tell what it was; it looked like a... a long cat, or something. Actually, it sort of... "...Looks like the thing you fought. But with a messed-up face," he clarified, and then hissed into the snow.

At the suggestion, Dread fired (ha) Svartis a faintly resentful, reluctant look.

"Fire doesn't work," he reiterated, rather upset by all this. "Watch."

Dread concentrated, and faint warmth flickered up around him. It wasn't even heat, and it certainly wasn't fire; it could barely even be called warmth, really. It was just... a little bit, slightly, less cold.

"I don't think it will notice that. Pick a way. I will go with you," he insisted. Then he nodded off, forward, through the snow; he knew that Emuh's cave was on the northern face of Polaris, just a small divot compared to the size of Polaris itself: but the whole north of this cave was full of snow. "I think it was that way," he suggested, but he didn't seem bothered, one way or another, about finding it.

It was likely the cold getting to him: he was somewhat miserable, quiet and dull. Dread was most certainly not an ice dragon.

Dread rumbled, deep in his chest, shaking himself intently like a dog spraying off water, as if trying to be rid of the snow. He didn't really take note of where Svartis was leading him--he hadn't been intending to go into the cold to begin with, after all. It was rather a fruitless endeavor, but still, it was good to be around family--even in strange places.

He glanced at Svartis, and then pushed his magicka in another direction: food. Golden food. That made you sparkle gold. It was always too small to really make a meal of, but it was a token of his care for Svartis: and he picked it up from where it'd immediately plopped into the snow, and offered it out in his teeth.

"FR UOO," he tried to explain, waving the banana at his son.

Dread followed along, spines slowly pricking up at the sudden influx of steam. He blinked, lifting his head, sniffing around.

"Did you do that?" he asked, and his guileless honesty prompted a piece of genuine complement, no intent of fatherly reassurance behind it: "That is very good! It's strong. Warm," he added, as a content after thought. Oh, and his manners--
"Thank you."

His magic, at least, felt a little stronger now. A little more secure. He would rest: warm himself, and watch the snow.

"I USED TOO MUCH MAGIC. Do you want to stay here?" It wasn't the best explanation of things, but it was something. And--
"Bone is here somewhere. I think Carja. I don't know where Blight or Asimona are!" ...Or Bug, but... she'd gone her own way, lately, anyway.

Dread stared, for a very long moment, at Svartis. And then, loudly (and after only a minute or so had passed), he asked--"Was that a joke? About wind?" It wasn't demanding; on the contrary, it was uncertain. The dragon wasn't sure if he should... laugh.

Dread didn't laugh very often. He certainly didn't joke.

As for Asimona--"But maybe you are right! I don't know if she knows. Or if it matters. It is just snow. I don't like it because it's cold. I just want MY FIRE BACK."

A short thrash of his tail, and he glowered off toward Emuh's cave; another annoyed twinned tendril of smoke slithered up from flared nostrils. Then he looked to Svartis. "You can't move the ice?" he asked--and again it was not demanding; on the contrary, it was sudden, confused curiosity. He'd never tried to "move" fire before; Bone could do that, he thought, but he'd never bothered to try. As an ice dragon, could Svartis not move snow-?

He tried to imagine it: the black dragon flicking his snout, a drift of snow flying in the other direction. Was it not possible-? Dread's ember eyes narrowed in thought, his head moving slightly, wings shifting to face him more toward Svartis. It wasn't about moving the whole storm away--but the idea itself had caught him, now.