Both colt and dragon are hardpressed to contain their amusement at the unicorn's reaction to drippy-squirrel-bits. Volterra manages to restrain his urge to laugh; his red not so much. The dragon releases a wicked draconic bellow, accompanied by a blast of frosty breath. "How he fight, if not like blood?" The crimson's question, spoken directly into Volterra's head via their mental bond, is a valid one; how would Calor react to the blood of a foe showering his fur? He'd probably have a damn aneurysm and have to grab for his mirror to clean up the speckles.

The other advances, threatening, and Volterra's eyes narrow, his thick muscles tensing a fraction. Could he have a battle on his hands? He dearly hopes so. He has helped slay two Gods; a blood-drenched, pissed-off unicorn with a shiny mirror and impeccable fashion sense is barely worthy of a flick of his ear. All the same, his massive head lifts upon the thick serpent of his neck, displaying every inch of his impressive size and work-honed physique. Vérzés flares his wings and releases another blast of frigid breath, so cold that Volterra feels it chill the side of his neck where it passes his flesh.

The man speaks, then, and the giant's ears dart back a fraction. "I do hope that wasn't a threat. Your blood would be a lot harder to clean off than the squirrel's." There's a small flicker of darkness in his eyes, the barbed words falling easily off his tongue. He has been trained to be a killing machine since the moment he blossomed like a broken promise from beneath his mother's tail. He is dauntless, hardened beyond his tender age. No son of Confutatis would have an easy youth - he knows pain, and he knows glory. He and this unicorn are practically swinging their balls around to see whose are biggest; an occupational hazard of coming into contact with another stallion, he supposes. He does not think the other colt a pussy, despite his jibes about the mirror; they'd fought together, after all. He does, however, think that any man who carries around a mirror must be a touch on the feminine side.

And he's just volunteered himself to be his puppet. Will he awake from the unicorn's thrall to find himself with pigtails and a pretty flowery crown?

Your ignorance is showing. Ain't no trash talk here, sunshine - it's all coming from Goldenballs over there. The Basin has no walls. "Must be dreadfully difficult to concoct secret evil-unicorn-empire plans without walls," he idly remarks, amusement dancing in his words. To him, this is just a bit of banter; he has no real emotions towards the other man. He likes to pull strings, to test boundaries; he doesn't take things personally. Now he has a tighter control over his volcanic temper, he is harder to rile up into a frenzy, and more relaxed as a result. As testosterone hardened his body and sharpened his mind, his temper grew more and more dangerous, not to mention more easily triggered - it took a lot of training to improve his mental fortitude and ensure he doesn't rip somebody's spine out for looking at him funny.

But the true test of that fortitude is about to come. The unicorn, unsurprisingly, jumps on his idea with the enthusiasm of a randy stallion being offered the chance to get laid, and the giant almost rolls his eyes. But he does as he's told - a rarity in itself - and stands perfectly still. His dragon flies to a nearby branch to finish his meal, and Volterra thins down the mental bond between them to a tiny thread. His reasoning is simple - he wants to test his own mental strength, without his dragon's assistance. And he does not want the unicorn using Vérzés as a weapon, or harming him. That would be below the belt.

Calor concentrates, and suddenly Volterra's head begins to hurt. It feels like somebody is knocking on the door of his mind, and when that fails, breaking in through a window; it isn't the soft, familiar caress of his dragon, whom he shares every thought and emotion with. It is something harder, sharper. Fuck. For the first time, a hint of fear jousts through his heart - he doesn't show it, but he feels it, unbidden, a plague in his soul. His mind is his, nobody else's, and it's being invaded. His sanctuary, torn apart. What if the golden-marked man can read minds, too? Immediately the giant begins to lock away his most private thoughts into iron-cased boxes, defending them with the willpower of the last man standing.

The muscles in his right hind leg suddenly twitch. Odd - he doesn't remember bidding the limb to do that. But, without warning, everything in his mind screams at that particular leg to kick out. Go on, coaxes his mind. You really, really want to. And he does. The urge to kick out his leg is the most potent urge he has ever felt; even more than the ache that fills his loins now he's a man, even more than the hunger to fight that has always driven him on. It's like the need to breathe; his chest constricts, like if he doesn't move that leg, he'll die.

The leg lifts, wobbles. But Volterra, black leviathan, son of the World Eater herself, does not submit so easily. His ears flatten and a growl chokes free from his gullet as he tenses every muscle in his body and fights. The leg wobbles again, coiling, ready to kick. So close. The beast and the magic fight an invisible battle, and god dammit, he cannot lose. The unicorn must already be tired from possessing the squirrel, and judging by his enthusiasm at Volterra's offer, he is new to using his gift. These are advantages which must surely work in the mammoth's favour.

His leg shudders, and his other ones brace against the ground, ready for the kick. The kick that doesn't come, because he keeps fighting. A feral, stallion's roar erupts from his jaws as he forces his leg to slam back to the ground without kicking, then collapses his entire hindquarters to sit his huge bulk down onto his back legs, crushing them beneath him. Try kicking now, bastards. Triumphantly, the colt's eyes - which had flickered shut - open again, and the pressure in his mind lessens. Sweat beads his skin as he rises back to all fours, looking at the other male and breathing very heavily. The man looks exhausted, like Volterra did when he first used his own magic; it can't have been easy to keep that up.

Calor asks if it worked, and the colt jerks his head into a half-nod. "Almost. I lifted my leg, but didn't kick. I wanted to, though. It felt like my life depended on me kicking that leg out." Brutally truthful; the colt had hated every minute. He is nobody's puppet, and coming so close to becoming one has shaken him more than he cares to admit. He knows what to expect of Calor's magic now, but he also knows he never, ever wants his mind and body invaded like that again. Physical battles do not phase him, and he can match anybody with the power of his limbs and warrior's heart, but as he has discovered today, mental battles are a whole different ballgame. It looks like he will have to train his mind more, to ensure that in a real fight, he does not become somebody's puppet, limp on his strings.