The filly seems suitably impressed by the explanation of his dragon's name, as he would be if he was still her age. Anything dragon-related had earned his undying love when he was a boy, and although he still adores them now, his enthusiasm is less childlike.

He looks as Parelia lowers her nose to the antler, shutting her eyes. The colt's scarred brow lifts, baffled, but his expression quickly turns to one of greedy fascination as sand begins to gather in the groove carved for the blade he cannot create. In his stead, she makes a weapon, a curved and violent saber of stone with a dragon's snarling head carved into it - a dragon with a look of Volterra's own red. It is beautiful, small but deadly. Like Vérzés. Bloody delight glows in his feral as as he looks at it, dull in colour but sharp of edge.

She kicks it to him, and he lowers his powerful neck to examine her handiwork. His lips fasten around the handle, his teeth grasping the rawhide wound around it and fitting like the piece of a puzzle. When he lifts his massive skull, the knife feels lightweight and easily maneuverable - he practices twisting it in his jaws to pivot the deadly blade around. Dropping it, he looks to the mare, humbled by her display of good faith. To do something for a stranger without asking for anything in return? It is selflessness that the greedy, self-satisfied colt could never imagine. "You...are kind. I thank you." His baritone rumble is nicer than usual, because whilst Volterra might be a little shit, he is not an ungrateful little shit. Mother taught him his manners after all, and he has received many a sharp kick and corrosion-laden bite for forgetting them.

She offers to darken the handle with her fire and he shakes his head to politely decline. He likes the contrast of the pale brown antler with the sharp stone blade, plus he's scared fire may shatter it. "No, I love it how it is. Is there...anything I can do for you in return?" He has nothing to give her, no possessions save for the precious amulets which he would give to nobody, but his manners demand that he offer. On his back, the ruby blood-dragon chirps, and both he and Volterra give an amused snort as Areli demands a knife of her own. Ah, what a violent little girl - I like her.