Just then, there is a light-switch in the part of his brain now inhabited by Vérzés, like a candle extinguished. The tendrils of their bond numb and fracture, and the beastling realises his dragon has drifted off into sleep, contentment rippling between their conjoined minds. The ruby reptile has a full stomach, a warm perch and a new soul-partner, and slumber seems the natural next step for him. The colt senses that, at the slightest nudge, Vérzés would snap into alertness, ready for battle, yet his sleep is deep enough for his body to go limp atop his bonded's withers. The sensation inside Volterra's head is considerably odd, as though a section of his mind has been injected with novacaine without truly affecting him. He wonders if, should he sleep too, his and his dragon's dreams would intermingle; could they run together in the forests of their own creation, both adult, both hewn from steely perfection, all fire and blood and glory? But now is not the time to test such a theory, and the colt's attention returns fully back to the tree-girl.

Again his forehead wrinkles in confusion, and this time he makes little attempt to disguise it. "Named...yourself?" He silently curses himself for asking another damned question, but he can't help it. In what unholy world did a creature name themselves? That is the job of the parent, or the sibling in the absence of a parent, or the friend in the absence of a sibling, and so on. Like gender, names give a sense of sentience. Without one, you are just...a thing. "Why did your mother not give you a name? Or your father?" Unless they did, and she found their choices inadequate? But Volterra cannot get his mind around such a scenario. Your name simply...is. He is Volterra. His sister is Nymeria. Their parents told them, and so it became. It is gospel. Volterra would never have dreamed of saying 'no, I don't like that, I'd rather be Flaming von DeathMachine instead' - it would simply have been wrong. His parents gave him life, gave him his size and his markings and his personality, and so it fell upon them to give him his name, too, the word by which he would be forever defined. His ears shift, tail continuing its idle swaying between his thighs as he looks at her as though she has grown a second head.

Choosing your own name. Whatever is the world coming to? On the giant colt's back, his dragon releases a snore, which Volterra decides to take as agreement of his bonded's philosophical musings.