Gramar, The Calm was not calm. He was restless and didn't know what to do with himself, even his skin did not know what to be, human skin or dragon hide. For months, he had eagerly awaited the day his whelp would be born. He'd imagined what it would be like to hold, caress and scent mark him. He had wondered at the colour of his scales, thought of all the things he would teach and all the places they would visit. He had thought of how he would be firm but loving, because he obviously could not trust Indrara, The Cold to care for her child. He'd wondered, hoped and dreamt but now it seems it was all for naught.

The fucking bitch had disappeared with his whelp. His whelp! His heir! When he gets a hold of Indrara, she would become Indrara, The Damned. How dare she take what was his?! Oh Lord! Will she kill his son? No, she can't, he would tear her apart limb for limb before he rips out her heart and feed it to the sirens where her soul would be forever tortured. He sure hoped the Sirens would enjoy it, because he would.

What was that sound? Lord! Was that him making that agonizing wail? How far had he fallen? He, Descendant of Paeteilth, The Barbarian and Choatyss, The Death Lord, son of Dagar, The Great, and Dragon-Lord of Clan Paetyss, was losing control like a fledgling. To think this whelp, who he already loved so much, was born of a dragon as deceptive as the cold hearted Indrara was unbelievable.

If he wanted to find his whelp, he needed his wits about him, he needed to live up to his name and be calm. Only a calm mind could find his whelp. Gramar took a fortifying breath and exhaled with a burst of heat and sparks. Not good enough, but that'll have to do.

On cue, Frutys, The Grim, head of the Protectors, the security team searching for Indrara, entered the antechamber.

"Where is she?" Frutys gave a grim bow, nothing new. "Speak."

"Apologies my Lord, she…uh…"

"Answer me! Goddamn it, where's my son?!"

"…he's dead."