He'd woken from his chrysalis with the slow shattering of obsidian, the black volcanic rock an apt metaphor for the dragon's entire being. A flex, a stretch, a yawn; then he'd pulled himself free, looking expectantly back over himself. As expected, he was longer again: by now, finally proportional, with a long and sweeping tail that would serve as a true rudder instead of a short keel. Dread had been satisfied with this, turning this way and that to admire himself. The rings were retrieved, put back on his horns with careful maneuvers--the other horn, this time, for some variety.

Then, he had looked over the flint chrysalises. Both were still silent, and still, and he was beginning to wonder if perhaps they would simply mar his den forever. If they were never going to wake up (and he was seeing them more and more as irritating rocks, rather than sadly unhatched eggs), he would have to move his nest, or get rid of them somehow. For now, he still guarded them, though without the fervor of before. He went back to spending his time soaring the skies, skimming the surf, hunting and patrolling. Blight had left shortly after he'd awoken--off to help with something in some water-place, caves knew where. And now Dread was alone again, bar his single visiting fish-child. He didn't mind.

Bone found him napping, resting atop the "sun"-warmed sea stack, curled over the larger of the two flints. All else aside, it trapped heat well, and it was nice to bask on; maybe he could keep it-? He was shifting from one position to the next when the incoming thuds of distant wingbeats half-woke him. The black dragon lifted his head, turning bleary emberglow eyes to the horizon.

Dread was glad to see his daughter, certainly: he perked up when she landed, red-lined nostrils flaring as he wing-waddled upright and over to inspect her. Satisfied that she wasn't wounded or starving or something, he settled back and listened. "HELLO," he interrupted, but then he let her talk. "SVARTIS IS HERE? GOOD! I WOULD LIKE TO SEE HIM. IT IS GOOD TO SEE YOU," he added, at full volume, as always. He shook himself, finned spines clattering, and looked around idly--but the mention of Charon had him peer at her with curiosity.

"ASIMONA'S CHILD? I WILL MEET HIM. ...I WILL NOT BE MEAN," he added, a little sulkily. Of course he wouldn't be mean. Who would even suggest such a thing-?

When Bone turned, jumping off to lead the way, her flight was heavy: her wings caught her some ten feet down with a loud whap, like an umbrella snapping open. Dread, when he spread his wings and bunched himself, leaping out, was far more graceful: a sweeping fall into a swift glide, one that took him shooting past Bone, the light glowing through his dark wing-leather and lighting the black to a blood-infused red-brown.

He circled, to let her lead him; he shook himself again in the air, revelling in the heat and light and spray of the sea as they descended. And when she landed--a heavy thud that set her feet a few inches into wet sand--he followed suit behind her, landing a good distance away far lighter on the beach, and wing-walked his way slowly over. He'd let her make the introductions, while making his own assessment from afar, and wander in as she spoke.