His daughters had given him new life. New life, new hope, and he loved them with all the life that was left to his ailing body. He stopped hunting lately, letting his children bring whatever they might find - always under some guise of letting them learn… but he thought perhaps that Natu might have known. He thought perhaps she had found him out back when he did not fight the healer who threw his command of his own den to the metaphorical wolves and tended his mate. It would not have surprised him, though he did know he kept his state in the dark in regards to his three littlest daughters -- and most especially from his, the last dragonlet he would ever give birth to.

She was not the usual dragon of his dragon’s bloodline, but then - what about Moladion ever left things of that kind untouched. In Moladion, Angels wore the hides and banner colors of Demons. No, Tiamat was not the usurping black of her ancestors -- but there it was. Her ancestors still sought the color of her eyes for their own and left them impenetrably white. And what of his other daughters?

It is not snowing, but Medea yet looks like someone had thrown a ball of snow across the side of her neck. She is beautiful, he thinks, in her quiet way. She is ever so like he was in his youth. Tempered, calm, collected within herself. She sung him songs, a beautiful voice that could not be competed with in all his memory. .