The man's jibes fall on deaf ears; Volterra cares little for what others think of him or his dragon. They know each other like two halves of a coin, and they know the strength that burns within both of them like an eternal flame, transcending scale colour or bloodlines. "Shall I eat him?" questions the red, hope in his voice and hunger in his heart. Best not. You might catch prissy disease. They share a mental laugh, the colt's body language showing quite how bored he is with the unicorn's futile attempts at intimidation whilst the dragon swings his tail with so much power it rips a branch from the tree.

Sure, the black can get inside his head - but that would be little use to him if Volterra lost his temper and snapped him like a twig.

An ear cocks lazily at the other's snort. Whelp? He's got a cheek - there's barely a season between their respective ages. The leviathan will turn two in a handful of weeks, although his sheer size and presence gives the impression he is far older than he actually is. The monolith of steel and stone is as far removed from a whelp as it is possible to be. "The fuck is a Qian?" The behemoth's throaty rumble holds the merest hint of a threat, the slightest glimmer of danger behind the impassive stone of his face. A darkness, lurking behind the light. A monster, hiding in the shadows.

In the aftermath of the magic, Calor is grinning like a loon. Has the magic addled with his head? In a small, smug display of his own power, the beast commands a patch of ground next to him to rise into a small tower, the same size as him. So practiced is he now that the summoning of his magic barely tugs at his strength - he holds the tower high for a moment, moulding the peak into a razor-sharp point that could pierce flesh like a knife, before releasing his magic and allowing the structure to collapse back into dirt. See? I have it, too.

Admittedly, the young stallion is hardpressed to keep an amused - and not entirely cold - smile from his face at the sheer exuberance of the other male. It reminds Volterra of how he felt when he discovered he could mould and crush the earth, that he could dominate the ground itself and save his dragon's life in the process. Boyish enthusiasm at its best. "Finally, we agree on something," he says in his usual gruff, masculine tones. Anything that can cure those godforsaken boils is indeed fucking awesome. He still cannot work out a logical reason why, however. What does puppeteering magic have that removes hellish diseases?