His eyes narrow, his concentration pushing sharply downwards into the stone until finally he allows himself to lapse, releasing the magic in a controlled burst. The rock beneath him crumbles and he lands neatly back down upon the ground, all four stout limbs planted firmly. His dragon is still extremely pleased with himself, puffing up like a peacock as he lurks behind his colt companion.

Volterra is about to go back to his training when he spies another equine approaching, watching as she cocks a hindleg. He tenses, half-expecting an attack, allowing his magic to caress the rock around him in preparation to throw up walls and all manner of structures if need be. Vérzés lifts onto his hindlegs, his amusement forgotten in light of a potential threat, his eyes blazing as a small hiss of wariness leaves him. With a resounding ping, a bullet-rock flies towards boy and dragon both, landing a little to the side of where Volterra's accidentally-made mound had risen just moments earlier. His ears, which had been flattened to his skull in anticipation of a fight, lift back to their usual curious position - magic. If the mare had intended to hit him, he's fairly sure she would have done. As a result, he assumes she simply intended to show off, rather than actually cause damage to him. Which is fair enough - the young monolith shows off his talent to anybody who'll listen.

She comes closer, and he looks her up and down. He notes her eyeing Vérzés, and the ruby beast doesn't fail to notice that, either. He flares his wings and drifts upwards onto Volterra's withers, his claws digging hard into scarred and tight flesh as he peers at her, forked tail waving lazily behind him. Volterra doesn't notice that the mare seems wary at the sight of the dragon - after all, he's only ever met equines who revere the scaled ones, not fear them - but Vérzés certainly detects something, and a pleased hiss leaves his narrow jaws. He wants to be feared, admired, hated, even. He wants to be known as the bringer of death and destruction, not simply a pretty, shiny accessory to decorate his bonded's shoulders. He is no idle jewel, all beauty but no bite. He is a destroyer in the making, red king, and he certainly approves of the mare's reaction.

Volterra, meanwhile, is too focused on her words to notice his dragon's reaction. "Thank you," he says, bristling up slightly with delight at the compliment. He is, after all, tremendously shallow, easily won over by a boost to his ego. Her mention of its uses in battle haven't escaped him, either. "I can't wait to try it out in battle. I imagine yours is rather useful too - if that rock hits, it'd damn well hurt." He eyes the rock she'd kicked, glimmering innocently nearby. Imagine that impaling you in the brain!

Before he can speak to her further, another approaches, and this one does have the young behemoth tensing. Spotted-stallion, witness of Quinn's gory death. Volterra himself hadn't brought that death - he had been too young then, too naiive. Abraham had given the girl her passing, and he hadn't done it nicely. The cowardice of the attack still doesn't sit right with the colt, because there had been no glory in the mindless abuse of an already dying mare, yet he now thinks he understands the reasons behind the pleasure the self-proclaimed Leviathan had gained through the torture of the horned one. Not that that made it right, of course.

Judging by the spotted unicorn's attitude, however, Volterra begins to wonder if he is blamed, too. Blamed for standing idly by as the unicorn burnt to death, blamed for his inability to help when his body had screamed at him to do exactly that. Fancy it, him trying to save a unicorn - blasphemy! Father would have been ashamed. It wasn't me, he wants to shriek, but the very thought of the words repulse him. It seems weak to apportion blame like that, even if it was the truth. The scream of owls draws the colt's gaze momentarily to the skies, and the red dragon on his shoulders glances upwards, too. Hunger rumbles through him, passing into Volterra via their mental rope, and he feels the crimson's claws tense deeper into his flesh as he fights his natural desire to rise into the heavens and chase the owls away. "Going to have them peck me to death as revenge?" he asks, his voice so very sarcastic at the thought.

Just try it.

Because he thinks himself infallible now; he is the Earthbreaker, magic and dragon by his side. Abraham isn't here to receive punishment for his crimes, so perhaps Volterra will have to, instead. Not that he will take it sitting down.