The notion of rejecting her, of fleeing, did not even cross his mind. To him, she is not an aberration, a blot on evolution - no, she is evolution. Perhaps she is what they will all become one day, with bodies of scales and powerful wings, hybrids between herbivores and carnivores. The alertness and herd mentality of the plant-eaters, spliced with the guile and menace of the meat-eaters. He wonders idly what his father would make of this girl. From what little he had gleaned at his birth, and from what their dam had told them, their sire was a rather closed-minded fellow who loathed the mutants, be they horned or winged. Yet, he adored dragons, was bonded to one. Would his hatred of none-equines stretch as far as an equine combined with the fearsome creatures he so admired? Would he be proud of his fledgling son for the interest he is taking in such a hybrid?

She seems pleased at his questions, rather than annoyed, and the colt is rather relieved. He does not want to overstep his boundaries, yet he wants to gather every last piece of knowledge from this stunning hybrid that he possibly can. Her joyous laugh is a sound that even the most miserable bastard would be hardpressed not to be uplifted by - Volterra feels a silly smile spread across his young face, delighted that the laughter seems to be with him, not at him. She reveals her mother was a queen, perhaps unsurprisingly. "A dragon-queen, or a horse-queen?" Or maybe both. The young monolith knows little of herd life, given that he spends his days with just his mother and sister and they are his queens, yet from what he instinctively knows he thinks that Amaris would make a fine leader. He does not realise, of course, that he himself is descended from royalty, that his grandfather was bonded to a royal gold and ruled empires with her beside him. He thinks himself a peasant, especially when stood beside Amaris in all her glory.

In all his youthful exuberance, he misses the fact that Amaris does not answer the question of her birth; he's so enraptured by the way she ruffles her wings, then leans down to display razor-sharp fangs. None-horse fangs. Predator fangs. That answers that question, then. Her whiskers tickle his side and he stands stock-still, his own nostrils flaring to properly drink in the smell of her. It doesn't occur to him that she could take a bite right out of his shoulder; hell, knowing him, he'd probably think that quite the blessing.

She retracts her head, much to his disappointment, and remarks that he's too small to eat. "Heyyyy," he whines again, although he sees the good humour in her eyes and realises she's probably saying it just to wind him up. "One day, I'll be as big as my father. Then you'll want to eat me." Because Volterra logic thinks being eaten by a dragon is something you aspire to, not do anything to avoid. He looks to the red and green again, then, ears flickering to pick up on any sounds they make, bloodied gaze drinking them in. They still don't look quite right, somehow. "Are they your bondeds?" he questions. Maybe, like him - apparently - she can bond to two dragons.