The dragons scream in tandem and lunge high into the air, to give their bonded an aerial view of the advancing predators. The leviathan respects and admires wolves, and yet he knows that they are not here to exchange pleasantries. If the creatures are here, they mean ill-will towards Tyrath - and that means they have signed their own death sentence.

He can see their desperation - the long and relentless winter has undoubtedly driven them to extreme measures, as no wolves with brains in their head would usually even consider trying to take down a full-grown horse and his son. The larger of the two places itself between Volterra and Tyrath, and the stallion releases a savage whinny; like fuck will the creature drive him away from his child! The beast did not go through the effort of attending the birth and hunting the boy down simply to lose him to a pair of rabid mongrels!

He needs to think fast; this isn't as simple as just taking the wolves down in a beautiful symphony of blood and gore. He could, he is confident of this, but he has to consider the fact that Tyrath's life is at stake, too - one wrong move and the second wolf will fasten its jaws around the tender young throat, end a life with so much potential before it's even truly begun. "Keep calm, Tyrath - keep facing it, don't expose your sides." He pins his ears, glancing between the wolves, racking his brains on how best to go about this - his eyes slide towards the colt, and to his astonishment he sees scales beginning to ripple and glow beneath the pale fur.

Magic. The boy has magic. But whether it will aid him in this first and most important of battles remains to be seen.

The behemoth strikes, and he strikes swiftly - speed is of the essence here, as the faster he can take down his own wolf the faster he can try and aid his son. He rears, thrashing his colossal forehooves in the wolf's direction, feathers flying with the momentum. The creature strikes, too, going for the leviathan's exposed underside - its teeth rasp against his flesh, drawing blood, drawing pain. But it is a small, insignificant victory for the doomed predator, because a fraction of a second later Volterra's hooves slam down onto its skull with a sickening crunch. It is dead before it hits the ground, and blood, brain and fragments of bone cling to the white feathers on the stallion's forelimbs as his feet return to the ground.

Simultaneously, his dragons begin to swoop in a glimmer of red and gold, to go and help Tyrath with the other wolf - but a mental stab from Volterra stops them. They hover, confused, filling the mammoth male's brain with ???. Volterra doesn't quite know what makes him command his companions not to go and help the boy. He supposes it's that small part of him that wants to see how Tyrath will handle this situation - will he fight like a man, or crumble into dust, into prey? The giant values strength, and now is a fine time for the colt to prove himself to his father. If things turn sour, Volterra is now confident that, with only one wolf left, he could move to help the boy in time - but he wants to see what happens first. He wants to see what potential lingers within his newest son, how optimistic he can dare to be about what the future holds for young Tyrath.

So, bleeding from the stomach, his forehooves dyed red, with the carcass of a fallen predator at his feet, the beast stands tall and watches, his expression hooded but his eyes hopeful.