Yes, is the answer he receives. What a chatty one! The giant momentarily elevates a brow, flicking his muscle-ridden neck from side to side to fling his tangled forelock out of his eyes. He is so engrossed in the wet sensation of blood on his back and his immensely talkative companion that he has been distracted from his boils - he doesn't notice that their pain has momentarily ebbed, their discomfort torn away. When he does eventually cotton on to the absence of the too-familiar spotty annoyance, he wonders if it is the squirrel's blood that has eased his agonies. Could he have found the cure without even meaning to?

He hums thoughtfully, a ground-shaking rumble in his chest. He half-notices the unicorn dirty looking his dragon, and a small snort slips from his nostrils. Spitefully, the crimson beast takes to the wing and flies pointedly over the other young male, gleefully tearing at the corpse in an attempt to spill blood across the unicorn's head and back. He circles, flares his wings and lands back on his mammoth bonded, settling back down to finish his dinner with a superior flick of his tail.

It's a mirror, says the unicorn. "How pretty," drawls the yearling, sarcasm dripping from every masculine syllable. Who the fuck wants to carry around a mirror? So he can check that his mane is perfectly coiffured? Volterra has heard of the narcissism of the unicorns, but hasn't truly believed it until now. The beast would far rather keep a sharp knife about his person, as well as his prized amulets - tools for battle, not vanity.

The other manages a smile - the monolith doesn't return it, but dips his colossal head in the tiniest of nods in acknowledgement of the extended hand of...not friendship, but tolerance. His companion introduces himself, and the colt has no reason to doubt him. Why would he lie about his name? Calor, of the Basin. Mother had taught him of the Basin; the man she had fought back in Volterra's boyhood had been its king, and she taught him that they were unicorn supremists. Little wonder his equine dam had wanted to bring them crashing down into a mountain of corpses. But the titan isn't concerned that he may have a gang of marauding, mirror-wielding pretty-boys coming for his hide in the near future due to his lack of a horn - it's more interesting than anything else. Apparently Volterra's sire was racist, and the colt is keen to get into the mind of such a being, to find what makes it tick. He does not share his father's beliefs, luckily. Such blind racism only weakens one's pursuit of power. As a result, the yearling thinks of this possible-racist as something akin to a zoo exhibit, to poke and prod and dissect. "The Basin, hm?" he rumbles. "I imagine you would dearly love my hide upon your wall, then." Again a sardonic, scarred brow lifts, almost an invitation for Calor to try and bring him down.

The hulking behemoth shifts, his tail swinging lazily between his thighs. "Your magic - why don't you use it on me?" The request is perhaps an odd one - why would the beast want to be controlled like the squirrel? But that deep, dark part of him is curious what it is like to be a puppet to another's will, to lose the iron-hard part of him that is his determination. When he loses his temper, or when his bubbling testosterone gets the better of him, he loses his closely-guarded domination of his own flesh and bone; he becomes a creature ruled by his instincts, a primal, primitive beast of salacious desires and hedonistic intent. As a result, he is quite accustomed to fighting himself - nobody else is strong enough, after all! So the notion of testing himself against a magical force, against Calor's willpower, is an appealing one.

Besides, if he does ever find himself on the wrong end of a herd of murderous racists, it is best he knows what to expect.