One has to come live on the island of the the snow to find it shrouded in mist - it looks so cold and dead. He doesn’t have any idea what he’s going to say when he wings himself to a granite rock, overseeing much of the island he had laid claim to, but he knows he will probably have to make some statement.

No-one was here to ask why or to challenge him for it when he had come. On one hand this makes him glad, because no resistance meant no bloodshed and no ill will, on another, it is saddening.

It looks empty now.

A geyser erupts somewhere to his right, just behind him, and he lets the warm spray softly tickle his dragon tail for a moment.

When all is silent once more, he gives out a long roar. A challenge perhaps, or a victory - if anyone is still out there, it will probably set them in motion either to flee or to see who is making such ruckus after all the destruction that had passed only recently.

He jumps up to float down, and when he hits the ground he has hooves again. Shifting comes easily - too easily - to him these days. Whenever his mood shifts, so does he. It is a little tiring, but perhaps soon he’ll get the hang of it.

A whinny follows for good measure, and the handsome stallion awaits his audience.

Things are desperately needing a change.